A Gothamite's Tale
by Tobias Umbra
Summary: An average teenager living in Gotham becomes involved in a conspiracy that could threaten not only Batman and Robin, but all of Gotham City. Please review!
1. Prologue: A Place Worth Fighting For

_Ben Edwards' Journal:_

July 17th:

I was chatting online with cousin Chelsea today, and somehow we got into a huge discussion of why we loved the cities that we lived in. Okay, it was a bit less of a discussion and more of an interrogation on Chelsea's part, asking me how I could possibly actually like living in Gotham. She's only been here to visit, and, living in San Francisco, she doesn't have the benefit of living in Metropolis or Keystone City to give her just a bit of perspective on what it's like to even live CLOSE to Gotham City. All that Chelsea really knows about are the stories they tell about Gotham. About all the bad stuff that's happened to this city, about all the horrible things that go on in Gotham, how it's the murder capitol of the country, as well as the property crimes, robbery, assault, kidnapping, arson, and auto theft capitol of the country. Anyway, our discussion culminated with her just coming out and asking, "What is there about Gotham City that IS good?"

It's taken me a few minutes to really think about exactly why I do love Gotham so much, before I could give Chelsea an answer. In a lot of ways, Gotham is like no other place in the world. Everybody's got something to say about it, but everyone not from Gotham always loves to talk about the negatives. There's no denying it; Gotham City is a tough freaking town. When New Yorkers tell Gothamites about how rough their city is, we usually burst out laughing. We're the ones that make up all those jokes about what huge pussies people in Metropolis are. There are loads of t-shirts all about it. My favorite is "Gotham City: Our Crack-Whores Can Beat Up Your Crack-Whores" (Even though the Gotham Knights always seem to lose to the New York Giants). We make light of the fact that we live in a messed up city. We have to, in order to deal with all of the bad things that have happened to this place: The Clench plague that killed my English teacher (along with thousands of other Gothamites), then the Cataclysm earthquake that practically leveled the place. After the earthquake, me, my parents, and a bunch of my friends from Brentwood Academy all moved to Blüdhaven during the No Man's Land period, when Gotham was cordoned off from the rest of the world for a year (THAT sucked. Especially with everyone in that nasty place hating all us refugees).

Since then, things have kind of been as normal as they could get around here. But even then, normal in Gotham City is still pretty freaky compared to everywhere else; lets not forget about the whackos. Two-Face, Poison Ivy, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, the list goes on (and who hasn't had a nightmare or two about EVERYONE'S favorite psychopathic clown?). Dealing with the parade of psychos is enough to make most people up and leave this place.

Not me. I see past all of that. Gotham is the fast lane; everything happens here faster and in greater quantity than anywhere else. If you can handle Gotham, you can handle anywhere. Yeah, there's a lot of people that let the city drag them down, but there's plenty of people that become the strongest, most determined and compassionate people you will ever know from living in this city. Gotham's dark nature has a way of preparing you for anything and yet still enabling you to have a great amount of heart.

Yeah. I know it's corny.

But that's not my only reason for loving Gotham.

Other than the fact that Gotham has everything, and that it makes wonderful and capable human beings out of those that can adapt to it, there's a man that has proven to all of us, time and time again, that Gotham City is worth saving. I mean, look at Metropolis: The perfectly preppy and positively chic city where everything is shiny and clean. Who wouldn't want to protect that? And think about that one thing that Metropolis has that Gotham doesn't, the one thing that makes them think they're so much better than us: The big, buff guy in the blue pyjamas and a cape with a big red "S" on his chest. They love to brag about Superman, but I don't see the big deal. If he's Mr. Perfect, it's expected for him to fly out of the sky and save some Metropolitan's rich white ass. If he's got all of that power, I'd be pissed if he wasn't saving people. Superman is too good for Gotham City, so who do we have? We've got the one that every one is afraid of. We've got a normal guy that dresses up like a bat. Gotham City is too dark and depressing a place for a super-powered alien to protect us. We've got Batman, who fights all of the whackos and watches over the city and does exactly what Superman has to use all of his powers to do. On top of all that, he does it for a dump like Gotham City. And if this hellhole is worth that much dedication, then it may be a dump, but, Goddammit, it's OUR dump, and it's like no other place in the world. That's why I love Gotham City. Because it's a place worth fighting for.

And because Our Crack-Whores Can Beat Up Your Crack-Whores.


	2. Chapter 1: A Walk To The Park

The first thing someone always noticed about Gotham City was the smell. A smoggy, wet engine smell like a rusty lawnmower permeated the streets, blasting up from the steam vents and smothering the sidewalks, then creeping up to the highest floors of the tallest skyscrapers. That smell was always the first thing that Ben Edwards awoke to, even though his room was on the 22nd floor of the prestigious Robinson Park Terrace building and he kept his windows securely locked. The second thing Ben was aware of as he stirred in his bed sheets was the temperature. The air conditioning for his parent's penthouse was broken, which led to his room having the general temperature of the outside. Daytime in Gotham was a lesson in extremes. In the summer, the town became an oven, more comparable to a level of Hell than anyplace on Earth. The wintertime was just as frigid as the summers were hot. The towering buildings that leaned towards the street, teasing on collapse, seemed to contain and amplify heat and cold while effectively blocking out the sun. A moderate day in Gotham was about as common as a crime-free day in Gotham.

Among the mildly offensive city odor and hostile summer heat, the thing that really woke Ben up was the sounds of Gotham City at 11:30 am. The congested streets of Gotham City were a constant source of the honking of car horns, the screeching of tires, the screaming of profanities, and (of course) the wail of police sirens. The sidewalks next to the streets were no less vocal, the foot traffic being nearly as loud as the car traffic. The pedestrians below casually yelled and screamed various comments and insults, sometimes in various languages to no one in particular. Street hawkers called out to advertise whatever they peddled, occasionally being told to shut the hell up by a Gothamite that had enough pirated movies or low-quality hot dogs. Sometimes, the music of street performers added some flavor to the animal roar of the pedestrian traffic. Whatever uplifting feeling this added to the atmosphere was tempered by the catcalls of the occasional corner prostitute or the unmistakable bark of gunfire, which, even in the relatively posh Diamond District near the center of Gotham, was not as rare as one would think. The specific sound that convinced Ben Edwards that further sleep was futile was a rather distinct four-letter expletive that still carried some attention getting power in the 22 floors it had to travel upwards to reach Ben's ears. Ben sighed and rolled over in his bed to face his window to the outside world, seeing the same view of Gotham City that he had seen every morning in his 17 years of life. It was a view that his parents had paid a lot of money for. The apartment overlooked the lush Robinson Park of Gotham City, appearing as a large oasis of green amongst the encroaching stone grey and glass forest of the surrounding buildings.

The sight of Gotham City was unique unlike any other, begging the question of who on the urban planning council could've possibly let it go to waste. The buildings were mostly old Art Deco or Neo-Gothic, more stone and iron than modern glass and steel, and all seemed to have enough spires, gargoyles, or flying buttresses to tease the edge of ludicrousness. Almost every structure cantilevered somewhat towards the street rather than away, and with the addition of height restrictions originally being nonexistent, the buildings appeared to glare down at the pedestrians and traffic below. Wrought iron bridges between buildings and over the streets, coupled with the elevated train tracks snaking its way in between the skyline, gave the whole city a very confusing, intimidating look. The streets and sidewalks were dirty enough that it would have harkened a laugh at the sight of a street sweeper trying to make a difference, had any existed within the incorporated limits of Gotham City. No city block seemed to be complete without it's own multitude of steam vents belching heat into the air as if a volcano might live under the city.

Though an assault on the senses, Gotham City was, without a doubt, somehow irresistible to Ben Edwards.

He rolled over once more, feeling the white linen sheets of his bed cling to his near-naked form, then flipped off the covers. His feet hit the blue-carpeted floor, and he stretched once and hurried to the bathroom. On the walls of the room were dozens of posters and newspaper clippings of the Gotham skyline with a very particular bat-shaped light shining on the clouds above.

Ben quickly brushed his teeth, then threw off his boxer shorts and hopped in the shower. The water of the shower provided a measure of coolness that was refreshing amongst the suffocating heat invading the apartment from outside. After thoroughly bathing himself, Ben turned off the water and stepped out into his bathroom, the heat contrasting with the water on his body to make him feel rather slimy. Grabbing a towel off the rod on the wall, Ben stared into the steamy mirror. A fit, toned 17 year old with short-cropped Caesar-cut style brown hair and green-gray eyes stared back at him. He finished drying himself off and placed his towel in the sink, striding naked across his room and into his closet. Ben casually pulled a pair of clean boxers out of the closet, stepping into them, then putting on a blue Hollister t-shirt and a pair of frayed brown denim shorts. Slipping on a pair of brown sandals, Ben stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of his shorts and headed out the door. There was no stirring in the penthouse as he left his room and wandered through the apartment; his father was handling some sort of business in Metropolis and his mother, being the posh socialite, was rarely ever home. Personally, Ben preferred solitude.

Though he greatly appreciated the wealth and luxury afforded by his parents, Ben wasn't spoiled. He mostly used the allowance given by his parents to go explore the city, usually by himself. Occasionally, a friend from Brentwood Academy would join in, but few could understand Ben's passion for traversing the city and observing the people in it. Most that could afford it spent as much money as possible to separate themselves from the street-level Gotham City. Regardless, his parents left him to himself and Ben left his parents to their own affairs.

After having a quick breakfast consisting of a single Toaster Strudel and a glass of orange juice, Ben went back to his room and approached his desk. On the large black slab, next to his computer, was a thick leather-bound journal. Ben once again debated whether or not to take it with him as he ventured out into Gotham. He liked to write down his observations and thoughts in the journal, and all the better to write them down directly after observing an event, however there was always the chance that he'd lose it in the city somewhere. The muggers would take _anything_. Ben had never been mugged before, thanks to some very sound judgment, but there had been some close calls in the past. Crime was a fact of life in Gotham City, and no one could escape it.

Ben decided that it was best not to risk it. He wasn't planning on going anywhere interesting today, just taking a walk around Robinson Park. Maybe he'd take the subway up to Amusement Mile if he was bored, or he could come back home and lift weights in the building's gym. He didn't expect to come across anything so fascinating that it couldn't wait until he got home to write it down. It was times like these, trying to fill up the vacant summer hours, that Ben almost wished he'd gotten a summer job. Even if he'd really wanted one, his mother wouldn't have it, insisting that getting a menial, teenage job would all but guarantee that someone would try to rob his place of employment and end up shooting him in the face or stabbing him in the eye. He had to admire his mother's way of showing that she cared.

Ben looked over at his desk and found the rather strong wallet chain he wore whenever he went out, carefully clipping one end to the belt loop of his shorts and the other end to the riveted hole in his wallet, then headed out of his room and out of the penthouse. He padded down the generic-looking hallway that led to the only other apartment on the 22nd floor as well as to a pair of elevator doors. The pale green carpets didn't quite cooperate with the brownish-grey taupe color of the walls, creating a feeling of slight queasiness as he approached one of the elevators and pressed the call button.

There was a humming on the other side of the polished aluminum doors, however Ben had to wait as the elevator climbed twenty-two floors to reach him. He leaned against the frame of the elevator door in removed boredom, noticing with halfhearted concern that the air hadn't got any cooler by stepping out of the penthouse. Perhaps the entire floor's air conditioning was on the fritz. The Robinson Park Terrace was a rather well to do building, but even it fell victim every once in a while to Gotham's blistering heat or biting cold. The stuffy air didn't really bother him; it just made him more impatient about having to wait for the elevator. As if doing him a favor and answering his desires, the elevator chimed perkily and the metal doors slid open.

Inside the well-anointed wooden interior of the elevator, an elderly woman in her early sixties leaned against the armrest built into the waist-high perimeter section of the elevator. The woman had a quite sassy look about her for a senior citizen, wearing a rather modest looking white sundress, white penny loafers and a large white tea hat that gave her a kind of whimsical mystique for an old broad. She looked up and noticed him, her tea hat tilting like a satellite dish looking for better reception, and she raised a grey eyebrow, greeting, "Benjamin! How nice to run into you."

Ben politely nodded his head as he entered the elevator with a smile, responding with a curt, but affectionate, "Morning, Mrs. Kaier."

"Good afternoon, Benjamin," Mrs. Kaier corrected, "It's almost noon, lazy bones."

"You know me," Ben shrugged, pressing the button for the lobby, "Needs my beauty sleep."

"Oh, and you know I'm grateful that you get your beauty sleep, Benjamin. It shows," Mrs. Kaier teased, squeezing Ben's exposed bicep with a wink.

Ben's mom didn't know about the way he and Mrs. Kaier liked to tease each other. Come to think of it, no one knew aside from Ben and Mrs. Kaier. It was a lot less embarrassing that way.

Their relationship never extended much past the elevator and the flirting, sometimes semi-sexual banter that they shared. Ben had only met Mr. Kaier once or twice as far as he could remember; a gruff German immigrant that apparently made quite a fortune by (if Mrs. Kaier wasn't being facetious) producing a series of movies involving a few barely-legal Austrian co-eds and some farm animals. Mrs. Kaier occasionally dropped by to say hi to Ben's parents or drop off an innocent-looking present for him. Said presents were usually home-baked cookies or brownies, however she did create one hell of an awkward moment when she gave him a hip flask full of brandy the previous Christmas.

Ben didn't quite know why Mrs. Kaier seemed to enjoy flirting with a boy almost a fourth her age (frankly the most obvious reason she might enjoy it was somewhat disturbing), however he did find it hilarious enough to off-set any discomfort he might feel.

"I'd be careful, Mrs. Kaier," Ben playfully warned as the elevator descended, "Wouldn't want Mr. Kaier to find out about our torrid love affair."

"Werner?" Mrs. Kaier remarked, chuckling with suppressed huffs of breath, "I doubt Werner would mind, Benjamin. Back before arthritis and rigor mortis kicked in, we were quite the liberal couple. More than a few times that man convinced me to do unspeakable acts with perfect strangers, just so that he could watch. Ahhh… those were the days."

Ben snorted and thought about dropping the act and asking her if she was serious, but then considered the fact that he'd probably rather not know.

"Well, if he wouldn't mind, I don't see the problem, Mrs. Kaier," Ben shrugged, shifting his shoulders around in his blue Hollister tee-shirt, "When are you going to get tired of that old fossil and run away with me?"

"I'd love to, Benjamin, but I have to face the facts," Mrs. Kaier sighed, then purred, "You could never satisfy me the way he does."

There was a certain classy sensuality that transcended age in the way she cocked her head, smiled and winked at him, that white tea hat framing her head like a halo. Ben tried his hardest not to laugh or blush.

"Way to break my heart, why don't cha?" Ben grinned, scratching his head.

"Awww…poor Benjamin," Mrs. Kaier crooned, "Did I hurt your feelings?"

Ben suddenly heard the elevator start to chime as it got within two floors of the lobby.

"Yes, you did," Ben teased with his lip stuck out dramatically, "I think I'm gonna go find a tree in Robinson Park to cry under now."

The elevator chirped once more, and there was a sinking feeling as it came to a stop and the doors slid open.

"Maybe this'll make you feel better…" Mrs. Kaier cooed, kissing her palm, then showing it to Ben.

"Thanks," Ben smirked, then turned around and began to walk out the door, only to be caught by surprise as Mrs. Kaier patted his buttocks with the hand she'd kissed.

Ben's eyes swelled as Mrs. Kaier remarked, "God, it's rock hard!"

Deciding to just laugh it up, Ben retorted, "If only you were a few years younger…"

"If only," Mrs. Kaier falsely lamented as the elevator doors closed shut.

Ben just smiled and shook his head. If it were anyone else, he might've felt offended. He walked across the white marble floors of the lobby, waving to Jeff, The Robinson Park Terrace's security guard, and exiting through the building's glass double doors.

The heat radiating off of the pavement and the humidity from the steam vents hit Ben first, like walking into a suffocating shroud. He shook the disorientation out of his head and began to walk along the dirty, brownish-grey sidewalk, moving with the sea of pedestrian traffic that covered every inch of the concrete. Walking through the streets of Gotham City made it truly evident just how diverse and mixed the city's people were. People from all walks of life traveled the sidewalk: nervous yuppies in their suits, trying to avoid being pick pocketed; a pair of Asians that had ventured out of Chinatown, chattering to each other in rapid Mandarin; a group of gangsta thugs in their baggy clothes and bling; an Arab with a long beard yelling into his cell phone as he wiped the sweat from his brow; a group of pre-teens looking for a place to put their skateboards down; and an extremely scared family of tourists with a map. All of Gotham seemed to be on the street, and they were all in a _hurry_. As if he was swept up in the current of a powerful river, Ben followed the dense flow of traffic, assaulted by the smells of all of the people so uncomfortably close to him and so oblivious of his existence. Above, the towering stone and iron and glass buildings blocked out the sun and leered down at the puny humans so far below. Ben kept up the pace of the rest of the stampede, careful to go anywhere but the street that divided the two parallel sidewalks. As crowded and bustling as the sidewalks were, the streets were much worse, a constant source of honks, curses, crunching metal and the jerk-stop-jerk-stop of extremely impatient drivers. With a squeal of tires, a grimy yellow taxicab honked and leapt foreword, it's right front tire hopping up onto the sidewalk, inciting the river of pedestrians to divert slightly.

"YOU DIPSHIT!!!" the driver of the taxi roared to an offending driver, thrusting his middle finger skyward.

The only response was more honking of horns.

As Ben approached the corner of Burton and Fourth Street, the flood of bodies ebbed as most either crossed Fourth Street and continued up Burton or climbed the stairs leading to an iron bridge that crossed over the asphalt river to the other side of Burton Street. At the corner was the storefront of a Radio Shack, rows after rows of televisions in the window to attract possible customers (there were, of course, bars over the window, just in case someone got _too_ attracted). Ben's attention was drawn to something on the TVs, and he drew close enough to the window to be out of most people's way. Just as he thought he might be able to hear the program that was on, an almost skeletal woman with big hair, knee-high leather boots, a candy-apple red feathered jacket, a smear of red lipstick and little else on nodded at him and purred, "Hey, sailor."

"Not interested," Ben dismissed, not even looking at the hooker.

The prostitute hissed something at him and continued on her way.

Through the bars, Ben was able to see and just barely hear the news, announcing the results of the recall vote for Mayor James Borg.

After a severe screw-up concerning the city budget, as well as accusations of sexual harassment, a petition for the recall of Mayor Borg soon flowed around the city until it had enough signatures to make some people in City Hall start looking for new jobs.

"The results of last month's referendum concerning the recall of Mayor James Borg are in," Jack Ryder of Channel 4 read monotonously off of the teleprompter, "And the people of Gotham have overwhelmingly displayed their lack of confidence in the current Mayorship. With a vote of 82 in favor, James Borg has been recalled as the Mayor of Gotham City."

Ben smirked a half-interested smile. It wasn't so much a surprise; most people knew that Mayor Borg was a douche.

"The election of the new Mayor has been scheduled for August 20th." Ryder informed, "Even before the results of the recall, there was much speculation as to who would run to be elected as Borg's replacement. Borg's opponent in the original election last November, conservative alderman Robert Hayes, has announced his intentions to run with little surprise, however much attention seems to be turned on what appears to be Hayes' opponent. Jacqueline King, a relatively unknown independent candidate, has been gathering a great deal of popularity and focus with her intentions to run for Mayor. Heiress to the King Textiles fortune, which is doubtless proving helpful in financing her campaign, Jacqueline King is quickly becoming known for her extremely critical views of one of Gotham's most well-known and mysterious figures, the Batman."

Ben had been about to leave and continue on to Robinson Park until he heard the newsman say something about Batman. He moved closer to the dirty, smudged glass, looked past the thick iron bars and tried to hear clearly what Jack Ryder was saying.

"Already, The Committee to Elect Jacqueline King has posted a campaign ad on The Gotham Globe's website, promising to change Batman's involvement in law enforcement if elected," Ryder said.

The screen then went black, slowly fading into a picture of Gotham from the air. It suddenly froze as a mature, somewhat nasal feminine voice said, "Gotham City. A city of greatness. A city of fear."

The screen suddenly changed to a picture of the skyline of Gotham City, with the stylized silhouette of a bat projected on the clouds above. A woman walked on the screen, superimposed over the picture. The woman was tall and thin, in her mid fifties, with her blond-grayish hair cut extremely short. Her lips and jaw were stern, however her thin nose and blue eyes seemed to have some compassion in them. She wore a black pantsuit with a lime green blouse, and she moved her hands in small gestures as she talked.

"For over twenty years, we have allowed the mysterious Batman to run rampant in our city, trusting a vigilante to protect us. And what has he done with this trust? In the past, he has left our city for extended periods of time, leaving extreme and violent impostors to fill his place. After the Cataclysm earthquake and in the early days of No Man's Land, the Batman abandoned us in our hour of need. Only just recently, the Batman and his vigilante protégés returned after a year of absence, during which they left our city's protection in the hands of Harvey Dent, who had supposedly reformed from being the violent criminal Two-Face. Dent reappeared as Two-Face and continued his life of crime shortly after the Batman's return, and remains at large. In addition to all of these derelictions of duty, let us not forget the countless Gothamites that the Batman has failed to save, simply by virtue of his nature as just one man. The Borg Mayorship was characterized by ineptitude, scandal, and an over-reliance on the Batman rather than our dedicated police force. We can no longer simply lie back and trust that the Batman will save us anymore. We must take matters into our own hands rather than relying on an unreliable guardian angel. If elected, I will push for heavier police funding and for harsher penalties against every day criminals as well as the breed of super-criminals that the Batman attracts. It's time that we make Gotham a city for Gothamites."

The screen went black, then showed a banner that said 'King for Mayor!' as an announcer commanded, "On August 20th, elect Jacqueline King mayor of Gotham City. Vote yes for a Gotham that doesn't need Batman: A Gotham without fear. Paid for by the Committee to Elect Jacqueline King." The screen returned to Jack Ryder's face as he began to comment on Jacqueline King's growing popularity, and the likelihood that she might defeat Robert Hayes, however Ben wasn't quite paying attention anymore, distracted by his own thoughts.

Everyone in Gotham had an opinion on Batman, and Ben was no different. Batman had been in Gotham for a few years before Ben was born; and he had been with Gotham through the best and the worst times. He might've disappeared occasionally, but he was always there for Gotham. Ben was a bit of a fan of the Batman; believing him to be one of the best parts of Gotham City. He'd never actually seen Batman in person, but he made sure to collect every printed picture he could find of the Dark Knight, and often went up on the roof of his apartment building at night, watching the skies for a glimpse at the Bat-Signal.

Ben had known for a while about Jacqueline King's ambitions to be Mayor. Ben's father, Darren Edwards, was one of King's primary election campaign consultants, serving as Jacqueline King's lawyer. Ben had never paid attention nor had a vested interest in politics, regardless of his father's involvement; however now he wished he'd listened a bit more carefully.

Regardless of this woman's other politics, a mayor that opposed Batman, especially one that had a half-valid argument, made Ben uneasy.

As he turned away from the televisions in the window, Ben thought it best to not think too much into it. The election was over a month away, and even if the Mayor did call for the arrest or stop of Batman, most of the GCPD recognized the need for Batman, even if they didn't exactly like him. After all, if Batman didn't take care of the freaks and whackos, they would have to.

Ben broke away from the Radio Shack and rejoined the flow of pedestrian traffic, sprinting along the crosswalk that traversed Fourth Street along with a fat-looking college kid, a young mother dragging her screaming seven year-old daughter and a dozen other people as the crossing light commanded them to WALK. The motorists of Burton Street that drove parallel to the crosswalk, quite indifferent to the walker's right to cross the street, began to honk and yell at the pedestrians that got too close to the lane. An observer could determine the Gothamites and the tourists in the scene; the Gothamites being the people that actually crossed the street, ignoring or returning the harassments of the passing cars, the tourists being the frightened human beings that tentatively crowded along the curb, dipping the tips of their shoes onto the crosswalk like a child testing the water of a pool.

Ben made it to the other side of Fourth Street without injury, seeing a block ahead the greenery of Robinson Park. His sandals clapped along the dirty sidewalk as the sweltering summer heat from the concrete below warmed his bare legs. As Ben continued to travel up Burton Street, he passed a normally bright-looking Limited Too store, which, by pure virtue of being located in dark, gritty Gotham City, had a rather sleazy, almost scary appearance to it. It looked grungy in a way that it wouldn't really surprise you to find a greasy-haired, forty year-old man behind the pink counter, or to discover hidden cameras in the dressing rooms filming secret reflectoporn of any prepubescent girl that might happen to walk in. The thought was enough to make Ben burst out laughing when the seven-year-old girl that had crossed Fourth Street with him began to screechingly nag her mother into taking her into the Limited Too store. Ben tried to stifle his laughter as a stern-looking black businessman passed him and gave a sideways glance. By the time the seven year-old brat was marching into the store, Ben had reached the corner of Burton Street and Nolan Avenue. Nolan Avenue formed the border between the Diamond District and Robinson Park, an impressive four lanes of rumbling car traffic. He scratched his brown hair, combing some of it down over his forehead as he waited for the crossing light to turn. The black man that had raised his eyebrow to him and a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair joined him near the opening of the crosswalk as the traffic lights froze the progress of cars along Nolan Avenue. Ben hurried along the crosswalk just as the light gave him permission to proceed, sparing a glance at some of the stopped cars that looked like they were just _aching_ to turn him into a road waffle. In one of them, a dull-looking red Geo Metro with shiny, garish-looking rims, a pudgy looking redheaded woman with her hair in cornrows waved her index finger with attitude, yapping into her cell phone as DMX blared over the car's stereo. The car shook as if the bass boost of the sound system was made up of a few dozen nuclear warheads being detonated in rapid, harmonic succession. As Ben continued to stare at the jive-talking sistah, she seemed to notice his gaze and curled her lip at him, shifting her head from side to side as she gestured incredulously at him. Ben shrugged quickly and spread his arms, as if to wordlessly inquire what the ghetto queen was going to do about it. She promptly took the phone away from her ear and yelled an insult at him, which was of course drowned out by the gangsta rap blasting out of the car's speakers. By this time, Ben was already on his way across the other two lanes of traffic, and stepping through the arch to Robinson Park.

Continuing through the entrance, the familiar sounds of Gotham City were somewhat muffled by the tranquil trees and the green grasses. Though the jagged, tooth-like skyscrapers of Gotham still huddled around Robinson Park like so many giants, the trees hid the sights and sounds of the flowing madness that was the City's street-level. Even the air seemed more peaceful, less offensively stuffy and hot, without the distinct rusty, wet smell of Gotham.

Robinson Park had not always been such an oasis. Ben remembered, back before the earthquake hit Gotham, the Park was dirty, polluted, and after dark it was one of the most dangerous areas in the city aside from the Bowery and Crime Alley. The difference between then and now was clear, as Ben strolled along the brick pathway, remarking upon the flourishing weeping willow trees and marshes along the streams of Robinson Park, and the ferns that garnished the sides of the walkways. Ironically, it took one of Gotham's most notorious criminals to so drastically improve the park. Pamela Lillian Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, had claimed Robinson Park as her domain during No Man's Land, turning it into a tropical paradise whilst simultaneously making it one of the safest places in the city (for her, that was. Since Ivy controlled plants and hated people, Robinson Park was one of the most deadly places in Gotham during that time). Ivy also had a large group of orphans that she took care of in the Park, which created problems when, after the No Man's Land was declared over, the city council threatened to defoliate the Park and flood it with SWAT teams, not liking the idea of (to quote Mayor Dickerson at the time) "a psychotic eco-terrorist controlling the equivalent of thirty-odd square blocks". In a surprising move, Ivy surrendered to avoid harm to her plants and to her orphans.

Ben had to hand it to Poison Ivy. Regardless of how sick and demented she might be, she had an eye for green. Robinson Park's untouched nature and pure tranquility was such a contrast, such a vacation from the invasive and overwhelming at times atmosphere of Gotham's metropolitan area that Ben never felt like he had to get out of the city. Still, rumors persisted that the plants of Robinson Park had a tendency to move just a bit _too _much when stepped on. As Ben passed one of the willow trees, a warm summer wind swept through the park, caressing the vine-like leaves of the tree to blow in the wind, and Ben could have almost sworn that the tree had beckoned to him. Assuring himself that he was only seeing things, Ben hurried in the direction of the pond near the center of Robinson Park, taking the least overgrown path he could find.


	3. Chapter 2: GCPD Blue

Ben Edwards continued throughout lush Robinson Park at 12:04 pm, the sun seeming to have grown a bit more amicable since he entered. Rather than the oppressive scorching temperatures one could normally find on a summers day in Gotham City, almost like being smothered with an electric blanket, Robinson Park had a lighter and less intrusive type of warmth, more akin to a cozy room with a lit fireplace. He stepped off of the bricks of the footpath through the Park, taking some care not to step on the ferns that lined the edges of the pathway. As he put his foot down, the leaves of the fern tickled his heel in a manner that was a bit too unnatural for him to be comfortable. Ben took off walking at a brusque pace. After Poison Ivy surrendered Robinson Park, there was some concern that the Park's plants might have a life of their own and a certain hostility to people, as almost all of Poison Ivy's plants did. So far, in the years since Gotham was rebuilt, no one had reported anything, however Ben did get a strange, almost eerie feeling when alone in the Park with no one but the plants around, almost as if he was being watched. He was not the only Gothamite to get this feeling.

Ben continued across the grass, slightly relieved to see Robinson Park's pond and playground up ahead. A number of people were utilizing the playground and the volleyball net beside it, especially a few children and some teens not too much older than him. Ben considered going up to them and trying to be social; but decided that he'd rather watch instead.

There was something about Ben that made him like watching other people go about their lives, to interfere would almost spoil the image. Though tempted to do so once or twice, Ben had never peeped through someone's window to watch him or her secretly. First of all, that was perverted, and second of all, in a place like Gotham City, doing something like that was a perfect way to get shot by someone that _didn't_ want to rob you.

A glance over to the pond showed much fewer people, just a couple in their mid-twenties having a picnic near the pond, and an older man with glasses sitting on a bench and eating a sandwich, staring distantly into the water.

Ben decided to move closer to the couple, rounding the pond and approaching the pair of twenty-somethings as they fed each other grapes and chicken salad. He walked slow, trying to pick up a bit of their conversation without appearing like he was eavesdropping, but sadly heard only the saccharine banter of two people in love. He was sure it sounded grand to them, but to anyone else, their giggle-laden exchange was vaguely cringe inducing.

Ben continued on, sitting down on the ground in between the old man on the bench and the picnic, reclining on the soft grass and staring up at the sky.

Surely there was some way to pass the time!

He was in one of the greatest cities on Earth, for God's sake!

Ben was almost ashamed of the fact that he was bored, looking at the clouds.

He narrowed his eyelids to keep the sun out of his eyes as he watched the puffy white groups of cumulus drag themselves across the great blue yonder.

Ben once more considered joining the teenagers on the other side of the pond. They were playing volleyball, and one of the girls was pretty hot. Maybe he could make his day interesting.

On almost any other day, Ben would've gotten up, joined them and tried to flirt with the girl as he played volleyball with her friends. However, today, for some reason, it just seemed so… pointless.

As if sensing his disillusionment, the grass below him cushioned his body a bit more, the individual blades around his neck moving a bit more than they were supposed to, slowly caressing his neck. Ben wasn't quite so creeped out this time, not sure if it was just his imagination or not.

"That one looks like a fat guy," an old, rough, and reedy voice remarked.

Confused, Ben looked up and over in the voice's direction, at the man that was eating on the bench.

"What?" Ben inquired.

"That cloud up there," The older man said, pointing, "Looks kind of like a fat guy."

"Oh," Ben answered, nodding and laughing nervously.

Ben and the older man stared at each other for a few minutes in silence, and Ben was about to put his head back down on the ground when the older man straightened his horn-rimmed glasses and said, "You look bored."

Trying to be vaguely sarcastic but still polite, Ben monotonously replied, "How'd you figure that out? Are you a detective?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I _am_, smartass", the older man nodded.

Oops, Ben thought. Perhaps that wasn't polite enough.

There was another moment of silence, however Ben's interest was slightly piqued.

"Do you want to sit down?" the older man inquired.

Without really answering, Ben shrugged and got to his feet, then walked over to the bench and sat on the other side. Normally, Ben would've been a bit more cautious, but the guy had to be about mid-fifties. What harm could he do?

There was some more silence as Ben looked the older man over. He wore a tan trench coat over a pair of black pants, a white collared shirt, and a black tie, a pair of black leather Oxfords on his feet. He had a rather familiar, grandfatherly face, with somewhat wizened, combed back steel gray hair, and a rather thick gray moustache that dominated his entire upper lip. Behind those glasses was a pair of wily blue eyes that had a spark of energy and stamina that contrasted with the lines in his face. He spoke with a tired, almost working-class sounding voice that conveyed a feeling of both optimism and disenchantment. It was obvious that the man had seen things. Ben wished he could remember from where he recognized the man.

"So," Ben said in an effort to establish small talk, "You're a detective? For how long?"

"It'll be about twenty four years this January." The old man answered, "God, has it been that long? I've been on and off the job a few times in the past few years, though."

The old detective took a bite of a toasted cheese sandwich and looked back into the water.

"Didn't like retirement?" Ben inquired.

The old detective swallowed.

"I liked it fine," he shrugged, "But it didn't take. There were…people that needed me to keep doing what I did. Apparently, _I'm_ the one that makes some kind of difference here."

"Doesn't sound like you enjoyed it too much," Ben said.

The old detective smiled humorlessly, his thick moustache curling upwards.

"It's not a job that you _enjoy_." The old detective explained, "It's a thankless job. You see a lot of things that people weren't meant to see. A lot of things that you'll take to your grave. But, when you're the reason that someone goes to bed at night and lives out their life instead of becoming another notch on some maniac's belt, it makes the job worth it. That, and working with other people that are there for the same reason as you."

"You talking about Batman?" Ben inquired, now truly curious. Ben was trying to remember just why this guy was so familiar.

The old detective looked at Ben as if he understood more than most people, but still didn't really get it.

"When you're faced against some monster that would find nothing funnier than killing you in the most awful way possible, or some freak that would decide whether to murder you or just break your legs on the flip of a coin, it takes a lot more courage to stand up to them wearing a badge and a uniform than it does wearing a costume. I respect anyone that would put their lives on the line to save someone else's. And unfortunately, in a city like this, sometimes you need a man in a mask to do the things that the men in uniform can't. I am talking about Batman. But I'm also talking about everyone else that stands up for what's right in a town this wrong", the old detective informed him.

Ben smiled, and nodded his head. He didn't completely understand what the old detective meant, but Ben knew that he never would without being in his shoes.

It now would've felt really rude to just ask the old detective from where he knew him.

Cheap, even.

The old detective took another bite of his cheese sandwich.

"You should try these." The old detective said, "It's this place called Dini's Deli. It's a block down from the Central Precinct. For just four cheese toasted on rye, they're pretty good."

The old detective took a last bite of the sandwich and rubbed his hands together to get rid of any crumbs.

It was coming to him now.

Ben could almost remember where he'd seen this guy before. It was on the news a few times. If Ben normally paid more attention to the news, he might actually remember the old detective's name.

The old detective looked at Ben one more time, then smiled and got up.

"It was nice talking to you, son," the old detective complimented, straightening his glasses and wiggling his moustache, "Take it easy."

Trying to think of something good to say, Ben sputtered out, "Hey, um, thanks. I mean, thank you. For, you know, what you do and all."

The old detective looked back at him, and Ben realized how stupid and fake that must've sounded.

"I'm serious," Ben recovered, "You said it was a thankless job. I'm saying thanks for what you do. People like you are the reason good people still live in this city."

The old detective seemed to understand, and smiled a soft and warm smile.

"Thanks, son," The old detective nodded, "I'll see you around."

With that, the old detective left, with Ben still trying to remember the man's name.

"C'mon, Edwards, you know this…" Ben murmured to himself, staring at the old detective's back as he walked away.

Suddenly, the name just hit him.

Gordon.

Ben rolled his eyes at himself and groaned to himself, "_Gordon_, you moron, Commissioner Gordon".

That was who that was!

Having been caught up in the simple achievement of remembering the man's name, Ben finally appreciated the full gravity of the situation.

He'd been talking to the Police Commissioner of Gotham City. Commissioner James Gordon, the guy that lit the bat-light.

"Holy shit", Ben whispered to himself, looking at the departing figure that was getting farther by the minute.

Ben had just missed the opportunity of a lifetime. All of the things he could've asked Gordon had he only realized! The city official that was the closest thing to an official liaison to Batman. That was so damn cool!

Ben had completely let it pass him by; the man that turned on the Bat-Signal.

With that very thought came an idea, and Ben quickly looked up to see the Commissioner still walking away, passing the playground and heading to the pathway that led to the Nolan Avenue entrance of Robinson Park, his tan trench coat rustling as he walked.

Ben leapt off of the bench and began to jog after Gordon, his mind racing.

It was noon and Gordon was eating, which meant that he had to be on his lunch break. Which meant that he was probably heading back to Gotham Central Precinct, the GCPD's headquarters. And the Bat-Signal was on the roof of Gotham Central.

Ben had never seen the Bat-Signal, but it had always been a little pipe dream of somehow seeing the world famous bat light. Now was as good a time as any to try.

As Ben slowed his pace to stay a safe and inconspicuous distance behind Gordon, the thought occurred to him that it was very unlikely that the Commissioner would just let him into Gotham Central so he could go on the roof and look at the Bat-Signal. He'd probably have to find his own way up onto the roof.

"So why are we following Gordon?" Ben murmured to himself.

Because it was more fun that way. He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, observing that the time was almost 12:40. _This_ was sure as hell killing time.

Gordon was walking a little faster now, approaching the archway that Ben had gone through to enter Robinson Park.

Already, the familiar smells and sounds of Gotham City were returning as they left the idyllic Robinson Park. The air was becoming hotter and stuffier, and Ben tugged at the collar of his blue tee shirt.

The trees grew thinner as they approached the entrance, and Ben was thrust back into the dirty, dense and noisy streets of Gotham.

Gordon was walking at a leisurely pace, almost as if he was making an effort to go slow. Unbeknownst to Ben, Commissioner Gordon was aware that he was being followed, and kept his right hand out of his trench coat pocket, hanging at his side and a mere flick of the wrist away from the Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357 magnum revolver holstered at his hip. He didn't really expect to actually use it, however a lifetime in Gotham City told a person that a following stranger was, nine times out of ten, a mugger or worse. Gordon realized (in fact, he hoped) that the kid was probably following him out of curiosity, but he hadn't lived through the things he had by playing it risky.

Ben continued to shadow the Commissioner, following him up Nolan Avenue as he merged with the flowing caravan of pedestrians returning from their lunch break.

As Ben strolled up the sidewalk, staying close to his fellow walkers in order to be somewhat hidden should Gordon turn around, the drone of honks and automobile engines from the nearby street became tuned out as Ben glanced up at the towering skyscraper across the street, it's windows blazing like hundreds of eyes glowing with reflected sunlight. The dark skyscraper with its razor sharp, steepled spires seemed to glare evilly at untouched Robinson Park across the street. So distracted was Ben that he absentmindedly bumped into a fat, shorthaired man in a hoodie with a pockmarked face in front of him.

Ben stumbled backwards a half step as the fat man looked back and grunted, "Watch it, dickhead."

Ben didn't reply, only nervously half-smiled and nodded a bit. He wondered a moment how the fat man could stand to wear a hoodie in this heat, but he didn't say anything.

By this time, Gordon was nearly a block ahead, almost lost in the foot traffic. Ben could just barely see a glimpse or two of the trench coat every now and then.

He decided to pick up the pace, darting in between people in a rush to catch up, hugging the brick walls of Robinson Park to avoid another collision.

Ben just barely missed a battered metal hotdog cart and it's rather surly owner, receiving a confused look and a pushy offer of a mustard-drenched sausage in response. Ben ignored the hotdog vender and continued on along the stained sidewalk, finally catching a full view of Gordon as he approached Radomski Circle, the traffic circle at the eastern corner of Robinson Park where Nolan Avenue and Keaton Street met.

The flow of pedestrians was even denser here, due to the narrower sidewalk lining Radomski Circle. Ben would probably have to stay dangerously close to Gordon to avoid losing him.

With a glance at the crossing light, Ben crossed Nolan Avenue along with a few dozen other Gothamites, trying to stay always behind someone that was right behind Gordon. This was somewhat difficult, as the person directly behind Gordon was an emo-ish looking girl with pink hair that happened to be about a head shorter than Ben. In order to hide himself behind the girl and not be easily noticed, Ben had to hunch over quite a bit as he walked, to the extent that the 35 year-old male teacher walking behind Ben wondered if he was about to be mooned. This particular teacher was actually anticipating the idea of a teenage boy dropping his shorts to him, which stopped him from moving aside for another Gothamite (one which would certainly be less tolerant of Ben being in such a mildly-offensive position) to take his place.

The tight group of passers-by rounded Radomski Circle, a swirling mass of four lanes of traffic surrounding a quaint, large fountain that depicted a massive winged gargoyle with rippling muscles and bat-like wings vomiting torrents of water into a large pool. A pair of preschoolers waded in the pool under the gargoyle's watchful leer. The menacing gargoyle spoiled the rather cute image and the multiple lanes of speeding traffic that roared around the fountain made it almost seem as if the children were in some sort of danger.

Staying hunched behind the pink-haired girl, Ben almost missed Gordon as he turned onto Keaton Street.

He quickly broke off and turned, nearly running into Gordon's back.

"Well, at least I know you're not going to try and mug me," Gordon sighed, turning around and frowning at Ben, "Muggers at least make an effort to remain unnoticed."

"I _was_ making an effort," Ben said impulsively, realizing that probably wasn't the best thing to say.

"Could've fooled me, son", Gordon quipped, putting a fist on his hip.

As Gordon's trench coat folded in response to it's owner's fist, Ben saw a peek of the wooden handle of a revolver. Ben grimaced and looked back at Gordon's face.

"Why were you tailing me?" Gordon asked simply, his voice rather stern.

Somehow, asking Gordon to take him up to the roof of Gotham Central seemed like a really stupid idea doomed to failure.

"Hoping you could show me to that place you got the cheese sandwich," Ben lied quickly.

"They didn't hide the place," Gordon said flatly, "It's still just a block from Central."

"Yeah, I just thought that, maybe you could show me," Ben mumbled, looking down with some embarrassment. He didn't like to lie that much. Especially to someone he thought was so cool.

"What's your name, son?" Gordon inquired.

"Ben Edwards", Ben offered quietly.

"Jim Gordon", the Commissioner responded, offering his hand.

"Yeah, I…thought I recognized you…" Ben half-groaned, shaking it halfheartedly.

Gordon smirked skeptically, his thick white moustache curling upwards.

"C'mon, I'll take you to it", Gordon sighed, nodding his head down the street.

Ben nodded and tried to suppress the feeling of slight humiliation in his gut as Gordon led him down Keaton Street.

Walking beside the Commissioner as they traveled among the other pedestrians, Ben felt mildly uncomfortable with the odd silence between them. He felt like he should say something. All of the questions that Ben had that he was sure Gordon knew the answers to surely would've been enough to pass the time. And yet all of them sounded so…naïve to him, as if he might become less in Gordon's eyes by asking them.

"So…" Ben trailed off, "Got any kids?"

"One daughter," Gordon answered, "She lives in an apartment in the Clock Tower over on J Street."

"Oh", Ben remarked with feigned interest, "What does she do?"

"Runs a few Internet businesses from home, and she's working on digitizing the police file system," he explained casually.

"Into computers, huh?" Ben responded.

"You could say that" Gordon replied monotonously.

Again, there was dead silence as they walked along the sidewalk, and Ben found himself at a loss of subjects for small talk.

"What do your parents do?" Gordon inquired, breaking the ice once again, for which Ben was thankful.

"My dad's a lawyer. Mostly corporate stuff, but he's really involved with Jacqueline King's campaign. My mom does whatever she wants," Ben replied sardonically.

"Well," Gordon said, "Doesn't sound like you're terribly close."

"They're not home often and they give me what I need to stay busy and out of their hair," Ben shrugged.

"Treasure the people you're close to, Ben," Gordon told him, "You never know how long you have with them."

"I guess so" Ben accepted.

"Your dad works for Jacqueline King? Have you heard the stuff she talks about?" Gordon inquired with a touch of disgust in his voice.

"Kind of. I think I know why _you _wouldn't like her. It's because she doesn't like Batman, isn't it?" Ben stated.

Gordon sighed and shook his head as he led Ben past a belching steam vent and through a crosswalk.

"Mayors come and go. Twenty years I've seen all kinds of people in City Hall promise that they're going to clean up Gotham. And none of them have done anything that compares to what he does every single night. If he was bad for the city, I would have taken him down myself, long ago," Gordon explained.

"I think Batman's good for us, too," Ben said. It somehow sounded hollow, next to Gordon.

"He's the reason I still have hope for this city after seeing what it's capable of," Gordon nodded.

Ben didn't say anymore, just smiled and kept walking as the oppressive Gotham sun beat down on them.

All sign of Robinson Park was now far gone, with Ben and Gordon both walking the floor of the expansive canyons of concrete, steel, and glass formed by the huge buildings on either side of the street. As they crossed Moench Row, sprinting under the pillars that held up the elevated train tracks for the Red Line of the Gotham Rail System, dividing the four lane street in two, there was a rumbling and a screeching of metal against metal as the 1:00 train sped on a course for the platform at Wayne Tower.

The last three blocks seemed to pass by unnaturally fast, and in almost no time at all Ben could see the fortress-like Gotham Central Precinct up ahead.

A long, narrow building that took up nearly the whole block, with a rounded front like the battlements of a castle, Gotham Central was a sight to behold. It's near-iconic stoop, with the bulbous lamps on each side of the doors labeled with the letters GCPD, stood with an almost religious reverence and seriousness, beckoning all that might claim sanctuary within it's doors.

As Gordon continued, jaywalking across the street as soon as the car traffic was thin enough, all the way up to the stairs of Central, Ben dared to hope that Commissioner Gordon might've warmed up to him enough to invite him in and take him to see the Bat-Signal.

Instead, however, Gordon turned around and pointed down the street.

"A block down there, on your left. You can't miss it. See you later, Ben," Gordon curtly explained, then waved slightly and climbed the steps and went through the doors into Gotham Central.

"Maybe sooner than you think," Ben smirked to himself, and then began to look for an alley where there might be a fire escape.

He walked to the side of Central, finding a fenced-in parking lot complete with guardhouse, stables for a few dozen inactive police cruisers. Ben looked in the distance, seeing a shadowy alley in between where Central ended and the neighboring building began.

Bingo.

Ben tried to remain casual as he strode past the fence, even going so far as to wave absentmindedly at the guard on duty at the parking lot, who forgot him the moment after he slipped out of sight.

Ben slinked into the alley, spotting the iron network of ladders, stairs and platforms that made up Central's nearly anachronistic fire escape.

The horizontal platforms stretched all the way up to the roof, providing easy access to Ben's goal…if only he could get the ladder down. Locked in place on a rail about 10 feet above, the ladder was well out of reach to prevent anyone from using it that wasn't trying to escape a fire.

Ben's eyes darted around the alley, spying a pair of green dumpsters. With a slight frown, Ben flicked open the lid of the first dumpster, and was greeted by a cloud of flies that swarmed and buzzed past his face before scattering in all directions. The stench of the rotting garbage wasn't as repulsive as Ben thought it would be; but it was close.

Just on the top of the pile of trash nearest to him, nestled between an empty box of donuts and a greasy black banana peel was a half-broken white coffee mug. That'd do.

Carefully, Ben held his nose and plucked up the coffee mug, then stepped away from the dumpsters and looked back up at the ladder. It was locked in place by a simple rusty lever. By pushing the lever foreword, the ladder would be released.

Fixating his gaze on the lever, Ben wound up his arm, and then pitched the mug at the lever, throwing it through the air with a grunt. The mug arced through the air, sailed over the railing…and shattered on the brick wall of Central.

Shit.

Rolling his eyes, Ben noticed that some passer-by in jeans and a red shirt was staring at him oddly from the street.

Ben laughed nervously and waved, and the pedestrian continued on his way.

He went back up to the dumpster, seeing the handle of a flashlight with a broken lens poking out of a pile of torn papers. Ben snatched it up and backed into position, flinging the flashlight through the air.

This time, the projectile hit its mark, smashing into the lever and releasing the ladder with a screech of old metal.

The ladder swooped down, impacting the asphalt with a loud, echoing bang.

Ben cringed at the noise. So much for subtlety.

Hurriedly, Ben grabbed onto the rungs of the ladder and began to ascend. The metal was dry, the rust scraping onto his palms as he climbed, and Ben was somewhat thankful when he reached the top. He quickly scaled the rest of the fire escape, darting past the windows and going unnoticed aside from a fat beat cop on the third floor that saw Ben out of the corner of his eye while stuffing a donut into his mouth. Ben was gone before the cop could look again to really know what he saw.

Ben ran up the last flight of stairs, hopping up over the bricks at the side of Central and landing softly on the concrete of the roof.

There was little on the expansive roof aside from air conditioners and heating systems; there was nothing that really _looked_ like a Bat-Signal.

Ben was almost disappointed, and he walked foreword along the roof, his eyes darting around.

He turned a corner made by a large heater, going into a large open area with a helicopter-landing pad and he froze as he saw _it_.

The massive Klieg searchlight the size of a small car was unmistakable. It tilted upward to the sky, ready to cast a shadow on the heart of the city should it ever be needed. Ready to call him.

Ben smiled warmly and approached the Bat-Signal in a reverent silence, traveling around to the front of it, seeing the shiny lens with a metal bat emblem riveted into the glass, it's tungsten-halogen filament now dark. The mirror underneath caught the sun just right so that it looked almost lit. He reached out and touched the cold, dark metal, tracing the wings and ears of the large bat-symbol along the glass.

"…Wow…" Ben whispered to himself.

He really should have brought his journal.

That, and a camera.

Ben's gaze wavered for only a second, and in that second he saw something else. On the side of the Bat-Signal was a rather large toggle switch just begging to be flipped.

It couldn't be _that_ easy to turn it on…could it?

He had already gone this far. What harm could it do to just flip it on for a few seconds?

Ben slowly reached for the switch. He stopped just as his fingers touched the plastic handle.

Just what was he going to do? Call Batman up and have a little chat? It was one thing to look and one thing to touch, it was quite another to _use_.

Ben thought he'd overstayed his welcome. Perhaps it was best if he just left before he got caught.

It was then that Ben smelled the wooden, acrid scent of tobacco smoke. And then his blood went cold as he heard the distinct sounds of someone walking along the roof.

With a disinterested shuffle, Detective Harvey Bullock, having spent the last ten minutes on the other side of the roof smoking a rather mediocre cigar, trudged into view.

The double-chinned detective and the snoopy teenager established eye contact for a moment or two, both of them frozen in confusion.

Then Bullock's fat cigar drooped in puzzlement, and he belched, "What the hell are you doing?"

Ben's eyes darted to and fro, and he honestly had no answer.

"Huh?" Bullock growled, stepping foreword.

Ben took off like a shot, running back to the fire escape.

"Hey!" Bullock roared, "Don't make me run after you!!"

Ben could hear the cop's loud steps scraping along the concrete after him as he hopped off of the roof and onto the metal platforms of the fire escape, flying down the stairs.

"I'm gonna fuck you up for making me run!!" Bullock shouted, reaching the edge of the roof.

Ben cursed in panic and sped down the last flight of stairs, then leapt through the air off of the fire escape, his sandals hitting the asphalt with an audible slap. Ben sprinted out of the alley and back onto Keaton Street, running for his life from the fat, cigar-chomping cop.

Bullock had stopped chasing after the kid as soon as he'd escaped onto the street, seeing little point in continuing pursuit.

Catching his breath and ashing his cigar over the railing, Bullock muttered, "Damn kids…" and began to walk back up the fire escape to the roof, and then back into Central for a donut.


	4. Chapter 3: The Boy Wonder

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Howdy do? I just want to thank you for reading this far, and say that, for those of you that have been waiting for something to actually happen, here it is. This chapter is where the story gets _interesting_, even though this is just a beginning subplot. I want to thank those of you that have reviewed me, and, as a matter of advise for people that want to see this story updated as much as possible, I have this to add: I live off of praise. If you truly want me to keep working on this story, tell me so by reviewing it. Tell me what you like, tell me what you don't, whatever, just tell me something to know that my stuff is being read. That way, I'll be motivated to put this thing on the front burner. Okay, enjoy. –Tobias Umbra

"Dude, you can't sleep here," a matter-of-fact feminine voice chastised.

Ben groaned and his eyes opened to see a pockmarked college-age guy standing over him, wearing a tan polo shirt with the words Barnes and Noble on the breast, and a lanyard with a nametag around his neck that said "Hi! My name is: Josh".

Ben shook the cobwebs out of his head and sat up in the green armchair, looking around the trendy bookstore that he'd retreated into after running from the piggy cop on the roof of Central Precinct.

"Did you hear me?" Josh told him, his voice having an effeminate quality, "You've been sleeping here for, like, five hours or something. You need to either buy something or get out."

Ben sighed and glared up at the one called Josh from the comfortable armchair.

He supposed he must've just sat down and fell asleep. He hoped the guy was exaggerating. It didn't feel like he'd slept five hours.

"Hello!" Josh rudely snapped, "I'm going to call the cops. There's a strict no-bum rule here."

"They seem to have a pretty open-door policy for douche bags, though, don't they, _Josh_?" Ben hissed, truly beginning to get irritated.

Of all things Ben might be, he wasn't a freakin' bum.

Josh's jaw fell open and he stepped back a little, and then began muttering something about how he really didn't need this today. Ben thought he heard Josh mentioning a girlfriend named _Bryan_, but he couldn't be sure.

"Cool it, Latifah, I'm going," Ben growled, then got up and began to walk away.

He scratched his head as he walked past the many shelves of books and dived through the revolving door, back into the streets of Gotham.

The sky was definitely a darker shade, the towering buildings gathering shadows as the sun dipped into the horizon.

God, how long had he been asleep?

Ben fished his cell phone out of his pocket and clicked it on, seeing that it was 6:45.

"Holy shit," Ben murmured.

He really had slept for hours!

Ben frowned a bit and figured he must've been more tired than he thought, then shrugged and started to walk down the street. He was hungry; getting something to eat was definitely in order.

Perhaps that deli that Commissioner Gordon had mentioned would be nice.

The pedestrian traffic was remarkably light, especially for the tail end of rush hour. Instead of a faceless blur, Ben had enough time to actually discern people's faces, and his mind began to wonder as he tried to imagine their stories.

Ben wondered if the man in the suit walking along the sidewalk with a briefcase in his hand was on the way home to his wife and kids or on the way to a hotel to rendezvous with some sultry mistress. The cute looking young woman with her head down and her belly a little bit more rounded than normal could've had an eating disorder, or she could've been a pregnant mother. From the looks of her, if she was pregnant, she was going to be a very young mother.

Ben sighed and breathed in deep, almost relishing the noxious Gotham City odor.

His eyes wondered across the street to see a kid his age walking in the same direction as he.

The kid wore a white tee-shirt and a baggy pair of blue jeans, and wore a book bag slung over his back. His black hair was somewhat unkempt and he seemed to be just as vagrant as Ben was. The kid looked up, and Ben paused and smiled in amazement as he recognized him.

He remembered a while back, a few years ago at Brentwood Academy, seeing this boy here and there and talking with him occasionally. His name was Tim Drake.

Ben never gave it much notice when Tim withdrew from Brentwood, but he always liked to see a familiar face, and Tim had always struck Ben as a bit of a loner, like himself. Maybe he could catch up or something.

That might liven the day up a bit.  
Raising his head a bit to better amplify his voice, Ben called across the street, "Yo! Tim!"

Tim's head snapped over in Ben's direction, his brow furrowing for a bit. He looked across the street at Ben with a vaguely apprehensive type of cautiousness.

Ben looked both ways across the street and jaywalked over the two asphalt lanes over to Tim's side of the street.

"Tim Drake! I thought that was you," Ben greeted, approaching him.

Tim stayed a bit silent, but seemed to relax a bit.

"Ben Edwards?" Ben offered, "We kinda knew each other at Brentwood?"

Tim squinted a bit, and then the lights went on inside his head.

"Oh! Okay, I remember," Tim said, his calm voice with an air of coolness as he nodded in recognition.

"What are the chances of running into you here?" Ben smiled, "Gotham's getting smaller."

"Guess so," Tim smirked.

"So what've you been up to, lately?" Ben inquired.

"Aw, nothing much. Here and there. I was just in the neighborhood. Caught myself down here and I've got to go to work in a little while, so I'm just walking", Tim shrugged.

"Where you working?" Ben asked casually.

"Just the night shift at this place in Bristol", Tim answered.

"You work nights?" Ben inquired, "That's gotta be rough."

"It has its ups and downs." Tim excused.

"Bristol's on the other side of town, I'm not keeping you, am I?" Ben asked.

"I probably have to go", Tim smiled politely, "Good to see you."

"Hold up a second," Ben said, "Gimme a call sometime; we can hang out or something. I'm usually all over the city every day."

Tim looked a bit rushed, almost as if he'd rather not, but he responded in a polite enough fashion, "Sure."

"Alright, it's 597-0607", Ben informed him, "Give me a ring sometime."

"Sure will. Gotta go," Tim said, and then began to walk off.

"Okay, I'll see you around, Tim!" Ben called, a little miffed.

He got the impression that he'd been dissed.

Instead of heading for the deli, Ben decided that maybe home was a better destination.

Ben began to walk back home as Tim Drake disappeared into an alley.

Timothy Drake was aware of the time. By now, it was probably 7:00, and he should've been ready fifteen minutes ago.

He retreated further into the dark alleyway, taking care to make sure that no one else was sharing the alley with him, then shrugged off his book bag and dragged it in between two dumpsters. Standing between the dumpsters himself, Tim threw off his shoes and socks, feeling the cold and damp concrete under his toes and ignoring it. He then unbuckled his pants and slowly slipped them off, then ducked down and unzipped the book bag to reveal a jumbled mess of advanced fabrics and clothes, the primary colors being red, black, and yellow.

He cursed and hurriedly dug through the tightly-packed mess, yanking out with a grunt a pair of black ninja tabi-style boots and a pair of red leggings. Tim slipped the leggings on and thrust each foot into his boots. As something in the depths of the book bag beeped faintly, Tim cursed again and dove back into the book bag, pulling out a black domino mask and hurriedly sticking it to his face. The mask was a technological masterpiece, concealing Starlite lenses, a radio transceiver/receiver system, an inertial GPS navigation system, and a full heads-up display while still feeling as light and thin as a featureless mask. Several small cells in the parts of the mask touching Tim's face secreted a spirit gum solution that ensured the mask stuck firmly to his skin. Pulling it off each night was kind of a bitch.

Tim stripped off his white tee-shirt and tore the red body armor tunic with the yellow "R" insignia out of the book bag, slipping it over his head and onto his shoulders. The steel gorget at the collar tightened a bit, and he smoothed the sleeves over his fit arms.

As he reached for the scalloped black gauntlets in the book bag, the mask beeped again, much louder this time, and a dot in the lower right corner of the heads-up display indicated an incoming radio transmission. Tim would've wondered who it was if he wasn't so used to it by now.

The dot turned red, and a deep, rough voice spoke to him through the mask.

"Where are you?" the voice said.

"Old Gotham." Tim answered, "Near Central".

"That's not what I mean", the gruff voice responded.

"I got a bit held up," Tim responded, slipping his gauntlets on, flexing his hands, "Someone from Brentwood recognized me and tried to start up conversation."

"There is such a thing as dismissal," the voice scolded in a deadpan manner.

"Just because you're fine with not having some semblance of a life outside of this doesn't mean I am," Tim retorted, pulling a yellow utility belt out of the book bag, then quickly adding, "Pardon the sarcasm."

"Chinatown," the voice directed, "Some kind of shootout is going on. Try to do what you can until I get there."

"I can handle it," Tim shrugged, clipping the utility belt around his waist, feeling it tighten as the micro machinery of his suit began to lock into place.

He pulled out the final piece of his costume, the yellow and black cape with the scalloped ends that vaguely resembled bird feathers.

"Something's different about this one. Watch your back, I should be there soon." The voice warned him, with the slightest amount of tenderness under the harsh growl.

"You got it. Robin out", Tim said as he fastened the cape around his neck.

The radio transmission disconnected and Robin, no longer Tim Drake, stuffed his clothes into his book bag and zipped it shut, then slung it over his shoulder and dug the metallic grappling gun out of it's holster.

Peeking out of the alley, Robin spied a large building across the street with a perfect target ledge, and then took aim. The grappling gun itself was an engineering masterpiece as well, resembling a soda can attached to the side of a joystick. Robin pressed the firing button, and the explosive charge inside the gun fired one of the grapnel darts out of the gun and across the street, trailing a thin but insanely strong de-cel jump line behind it . The dart drilled its way into the concrete masonry and the tiny but powerful motor of the gun gave a barely-audible whurr as the gun jerked him foreword and off of his feet, yanking him through the air and closing the distance between himself and the roof ledge at breakneck speed. His cape billowed behind him as he pressed the release button and the jump line snapped loose, allowing Robin to fly through the air over the roof ledge.

Still soaring, Robin performed a midair summersault to stabilize himself, extending his legs with perfect timing and form to land lightly on his feet on the roof of the building, over sixty feet above where he had been barely seconds before.

Robin made a mental note to memorize the location of this roof, then set the book bag down discreetly, taking his cell phone out and storing it in one of the pouches of his utility belt. It never hurt to have a backup contact, and even if he somehow lost it, it was registered to Wayne Enterprises, not Tim Drake.

A few roofs away, the elevated train tracks over Moench Row began to rumble and squeak as the oncoming Red Line of the Gotham Rail System sped to make its 7:15 arrival at Wayne Tower. It wouldn't take him all the way to Chinatown, but it would keep him moving fast enough to reach it until his primary mode of transportation arrived.

As Robin sprinted across the roof and jumped over the gap between the next building, he said into his mask, "Direct link: Batcomputer."

"Hello, Robin. Enter command", the digital voice of the Batcomputer answered coldly as the transmission was established.

"Actuate Redbird-9. GPS control dispatch to self-intercept." Robin ordered as he rushed across the next roof just as quickly as the first, holstering his grappling gun and pulling out his backup hand-thrown line. The upcoming jump would be short and easy, so there would be no need to waste one of the grappling gun's shots.

"Command confirmed. Order executed." The Batcomputer answered.

In an alley near Robinson Park, a dumpster that was not really a dumpster collapsed to reveal a 491 cc liquid-cooled red motocross bike with a yellow "R" on the side. Without a rider, the bike screamed to life and took off into the busy streets of Gotham City, homing in on the signal from Robin's mask.

He paused only a moment as the wide space that could drop him down about fifty feet into the two busy lanes of Moench Row lay ahead.

"Access media player," Robin commanded with a smile, and then continued, "Access Robin's Playlist. Play artist Martha and The Vandellas."

"Command confirmed. Order executed." The Batcomputer replied.

The sounds of a drum beat with a brass accompaniment began to play, and then Martha Reeves' Motown voice began to wail, "Nowhere to run to, baby! Nowhere to hide!" Robin smiled. He always was a fan of the oldies. He rushed foreword and threw himself into space, flinging the grappling line through the air and watching patiently in freefall as it looped around a streetlight over Moench Row. Just as Martha and her backup singers began to reach a crescendo, the rope tightened and Robin dug his fingers into his palms, grasping the line securely as he stopped falling and started swinging.

His arms felt like they were leaving their sockets the wrong way, but he gritted his teeth and kept his grip and his nerve, as he'd been trained to do.

The wind whipped and whistled around his ears as he swung over the honking traffic of Moench Row just as the Red Line train began to rumble along the elevated tracks ahead.

As Robin reached the peak of his swing, he twisted in the air and whirled his arm, creating slack in the line enough to loosen it from the streetlight.

He sailed through space with the line trailing behind him, the train snaking under and ahead of him, so fast that for a moment Robin thought that he'd made a mistake and was about to become a stain on the railroad tracks.

Then, almost as if time had slowed down just for him, the soles of his boots slapped onto the smooth steel roof of the last train car, and he slipped just a bit as he struggled to stabilize himself on the forty mile-per-hour train. The wind roared all over him, whipping his hair and cape backwards and almost drowning out Martha's singing. Below, Moench Row quickly flowed away as the elevated train entered the Diamond District, and Robin planted himself in place, sitting on all fours rather like a dog as the wind continued to push against him.

As Martha and The Vandellas began to fade out, Robin commanded, "End recording. Stand by."

"Command confirmed. Order executed." The Batcomputer responded once again.

After a few moments, Robin noticed that the wind was beginning to lessen, and he looked over his shoulder to see the massive form of Wayne Tower looming ahead.

Oh, that was right.

The train had to make a stop at the Wayne Tower platform before it would continue on to the Lower West Side, at which point the Redbird would probably have caught up with him.

Before he could do that, though, he'd have to make it past Wayne Tower as regular Gothamites boarded the train that he was currently perched on.

This would be interesting.

As the train began to slow, Robin had to duck his head slightly to avoid being decapitated by the overhanging roof of the enclosed platform as the train entered the platform on the third floor of Wayne Tower.

The train came to a slow stop, and Robin looked over the edge to see about twenty Gothamites waiting, disinterested, for their subway.

As of yet, they were oblivious to the colorful, teenaged half of the Dynamic Duo sitting on the roof.

Robin was about to breathe a sigh of relief, until he saw the six year old boy in overalls staring up at him curiously, his mouth agape and his eyes wide with wonder. Robin slowly put his finger over his mouth and shook his head softly.

The child, of course, could not be silenced.

"Mommy! Mommy!" The six year old cried with a jerk of his mother's hand, pointing squarely at Robin happily.

Robin cringed as the mother followed her son's gesture, and she then proceeded to gasp in shock and confusion.

Like dominoes, almost everyone on the platform that was not on the train looked up at Robin and adopted clichéd looks of surprise. Some began to exclaim and murmur, whilst others quickly pulled out camera phones. Robin let out a slight groan of humiliation. It would be weeks before Bruce let him forget this. It would be _centuries_ before Alfred would.

Awkwardly, Robin held up his hand in greeting, calling out unsurely, "Good evening…citizens."

Some people looked at him bizarrely, others continued to film with their camera phones.

The kid that had fingered him stood completely in awe, and Robin tiredly smiled.

Kids. You had to love them.

"Red Line departing for 58th Street station. Please stand clear," The announcer said, and the sound of half a dozen automated doors sliding closed simultaneously was heard, then the train began to hum and slide away.

Robin spared a halfhearted wave at the platform of gawkers as they began to slide out of sight, and was almost thankful to have the harsh wind attempting to shove him off the rear of the train once again.

The high-end skyscrapers and expensive gothic condos and hotels of Old Gotham and the Diamond District soon gave way to the shorter, older, uglier buildings of the Lower West Side neighborhood. Mostly a middle class residential area, the Lower West Side had much less traffic than central downtown, as Robin could witness from the near empty streets almost forty feet below.

A blue dot in the upper left corner of his heads-up display told Robin that the Redbird was very nearly at his position. He began to scan the roads below, and soon began to hear the whine of a motocross bike under him.

The riderless red motorcycle, ninth of a set of ten, used a sophisticated radar unit and a satellite guidance system to steer itself flawlessly through traffic without colliding with anything. Speeding forty feet below him, Robin was too high to simply leap onto it cowboy-style. He'd have to be a bit more methodical to avoid a broken pelvis.

Robin spied a flag pole hanging out from a building on the other side of the street that the elevated train tracks straddled.

That would do nicely.

Shifting all of his weight onto the balls of his feet, still in a crouched position, Robin scooted to the side of the train's roof, struggled to stay balanced, and then dove through the air with a mighty spring of his legs. Soaring through the air in an almost careless manner, like a skydiver except with a lot less room to work with, Robin stretched out his hands and felt the jarring sting as his palms slapped into the flagpole, wrapping his fingers around the metal.

The pole bent down as Robin expected and he swung his legs foreword, using his momentum to swing over the flagpole once like a gymnast performing a high-bar routine. As he began to swing downward towards the ground, Tim let go of the flagpole and continued to fall through the air. With the asphalt speeding up to meet him, Robin took a handful of each side of his cape, stretching it out to form a drag parachute (one of the many functions it was designed for) that slowed his descent enough for it to matter.

The Redbird zoomed under him and Robin released his cape, dropping onto his tailbone on the back of the bike. The adrenaline rush made any pain that he felt negligible, and he pitched foreword and grabbed a hold of the handlebars of the bike, stabilizing it as it began to pitch from side to side in response to his sudden drop onto it.

A press of a red button on the right handlebar engaged the manual override, allowing Tim to control the bike rather than the Batcomputer, and he felt a sudden deceleration as the automation ended. A sharp twist of the throttle made the Redbird jerk foreword, the engine screaming as it shot down the dark street. Reaching back to the rear of the seat, Robin grabbed the red motorcycle helmet off of its peg and shoved it over his head.

The roar of the wind became much less noticeable, and his mask's heads-up-display disengaged as it detected the proximity of the helmet. In response, the helmet's own HUD activated, displaying the speed and other gages of the motorcycle in addition to all of the regular functions of his mask.

The dot indicating an incoming transmission blinked on, and suddenly he could hear Batman's rough voice once again.

"The place is at Miller and 75th. Stay in contact. The police are holding off because two backup units have been lost. This is more than just a robbery gone wrong." He explained.

"One of our Arkham friends?" Robin asked.

"Possibly", Batman replied.

"I'll be careful, Bruce," Robin answered.

"I'm going through Summerset now. It'll be a while before I can get there. Stay sharp", Batman answered, "Batman out."

Robin leaned foreword and throttled up, shooting through the Lower West Side and darting between a pair of comparatively slow moving cars as he sped onto 75th street, his cape flapping behind him in the wind.

He gunned it down the asphalt and soon found the buildings cheapening in quality, with the signs changing from English to Chinese as he entered Chinatown. The people walking along the sidewalk began to get a lot more numerous along with the cars on the street, with Robin continuously riding the white lines of the street in between the cars in order to stay moving. The streets began to thin and the blur of pedestrian traffic seemed to be moving away from the direction that Robin was headed, which simply confirmed that he was going in the right direction.

As he reached the intersection of Miller and 75th, Robin found the streets almost completely empty, making it easy to spot the jewelry store with the shattered front windows up ahead, along with the large van parked in front of it. It was almost too easy.

Just as Robin was about to slow down, a man carrying a box of stolen merchandise walked through the broken windows and saw the approaching vigilante, then cursed and dropped the box, reaching into his jacket.

Robin instead accelerated, hopping the bike onto the sidewalk and extending his arm.

The robber barely had his hand halfway out of his jacket before Robin clothes-lined him with his fist at thirty miles per hour.

He fell onto his back with a massive thud, collapsing onto the sidewalk.

Robin ignored the pain in his knuckles and swerved the bike to the side, coming to a complete stop and tossing off his helmet. He threw himself off of the Redbird and charged toward the down but still very conscious robber, his movements fluid and precise.

The robber cried something out just as Robin performed a flawless axe-kick to his forehead that scrambled the robber's brains and would leave him out of action for the rest of the night.

A number of cries of panic from various accomplices inside assured Robin that things couldn't be that easy.

They never were, anyway.

A quick glance into the darkened jewelry store revealed about five men in their own states of alarm, some dropping their loot and others taking cover behind display cases.

Just as one of them roared, "Light his ass up!!" Robin was throwing a pair of exploding tear gas capsules into the store, then leaping through the air to the top of the van in front of the store. The sound of multiple gunshots being fired at the position Robin had just occupied barely a second ago was interrupted by the hissing blast of the gas capsules exploding.

The robbers inside all let out a symphony of roars and yelps of panic, some firing blindly for a few seconds while others yelled at them to stop as the billowing white clouds of tear gas began to blow out the windows of the jewelry store.

Tim smiled and reached into his utility belt, pulling out a pair of hard-impact batarangs in each hand. As the first robber stumbled out of the jewelry store, coughing and blind from the tear gas, Robin pulled his arm back, then pitched it foreword and let the batarang fly.

It spun through the air magnificently, barely visible in the moonlight and making a beautiful whooshing sound before plowing into the robber's skull with a loud crack, twisting his neck painfully and throwing his face into the wall of the jewelry store. The robber hit the brick wall with another cringe-inducing crack, and then collapsed to the ground with a pair of bloody knots marking his head.

Tim smiled and passed the next batarang in his right hand as well. He was much better with his right hand than his left, though he could use both if needed.

Another one of the robbers fell out of the jewelry store's windows, this one a little more brazen and with a large .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol in his muscled hand. He pointed it up in the general direction of Robin, who launched the second batarang quickly. This one had no elegant arc like the last one, instead whirling on a straight path towards the robber's arm. The hard-impact edge smashed into the robber's hand, inciting a scream and the snapping of bones as the Desert Eagle was thrown to the concrete. Robin had a feeling that the guy wouldn't be firing a gun, or using that hand for anything else, for a long while.

Reaching into the back of his utility belt, Robin retrieved his steel telescoping bo-staff from its holster, extending it with a flick of his wrist and then hopping off of the roof of the van, bringing the bo-staff down as he fell through the air. The tip of the staff smacked the thug's left shoulder, cracking his humerus and breaking his collarbone in two places. With his right hand and left shoulder broken, there was no way the guy could pick himself up.

Disoriented and moving like a zombie, a third assailant shuffled blindly out of the thinning tear gas smoke.

The thug looked at Robin in a disoriented manner, and began to whimper, "Please…Jesus, man, I give up…God damn it…."

Robin still saw the guy reaching for a knife handle sticking out of his pocket, and swung his bo-staff into his ribs, not breaking them but with enough force to make him feel it for a good long while.

He yelped and fell to his knees, just in time to catch the other end of Robin's bo-staff as it swung like a golf-club into his jaw. The impact echoed as the thug's neck whiplashed, spitting out about two or three teeth before kissing the pavement.

Tim faced the jewelry store, ready to take on the last two as the tear gas cleared enough to see inside.

Instead of finding two ready men, he saw a pair of sobbing criminals curled up in a fetal position as they tried to rub the tear gas out of their eyes. With a smile, Tim collapsed his staff and slipped it back into its holster on his belt.

"Batman", Robin declared, establishing a radio transmission, "Don't bother coming to Chinatown. I took care of everything. Dunno why the cops had so much trouble with these guys. They seemed like garden-variety dregs to me."

"Tim," Batman commanded strongly, "Get out of there."

"What?" Robin asked.

"The police units were destroyed two blocks away. It's Freeze. Get out of there now!" Batman barked.

"Got it," Robin affirmed, reaching for the grappling gun.

They had equipment to deal with Mr. Freeze, but Tim didn't have any of it with him. He would be a sitting duck waiting for Bruce to arrive, which was not a good situation to be in with one of Gotham's whackos.

Just as Robin took aim at a billboard on a building above, he heard a massive hum-like blast, and suddenly millions of needles were stabbing into where his right leg used to be.

The sudden excruciating pain caused Tim to cry out and fall on his ass, at which point he noticed the reason that his leg was in pain and why he couldn't move it.

It wasn't cut off or gone; it was frozen solid, with tiny crystals of ice and frost trailing from his mid-thigh to the tip of his foot.

Tim bit into his lip and tried to ignore the pain, but he couldn't, it just kept getting worse and worse the more he tried to move his frozen leg.

Finally, he managed to scoot up against the side of the van and bend his left leg inward, pushing himself against the side of the van to bring himself up. Tim hissed as he tried to regain balance.

A deep, barely human voice with an almost metallic quality suddenly growled, "Your determination to escape is admirable. And foolish. There is no future, or mercy, or hope for you, my winged friend…"

Robin suddenly saw him storm out from behind the van, clad in his thick refrigeration suit, his pale, bald head and glowing red goggles staring out at him from inside a Plexiglas bubble. In his hand was a black, rather odd-looking gun the size of a small submachine gun.

Victor Fries. Mr. Freeze.

"Tim!" Batman roared over the radio.

Robin just stared at those red eyes, breathing raggedly, barely able to move with the paralyzing cold of his frozen leg.

"I hope you can hear all of this, Batman," Freeze rumbled, suddenly smashing the barrel of his ice gun into Robin's mask, creating stars in his eyes as Robin cried out and was knocked to the ground.

"I want you to hear the boy _scream_," Mr. Freeze purred.

"I—oming—Don't let him—!" Batman's garbled transmission cut off as the damaged circuitry in the mask died and Robin's connection to all that could help him ended.

"I'll make this as painful as I can for you, boy," Freeze smirked, raising his gun.

Robin looked over at him, breathed in hard, and forced all of the pain down into his gut.

If he didn't do something, he was going to die, right here.

Just like Jason Todd.

And Tim Drake was _not_ Jason Todd.

Tim whipped his bo-staff out of its holster, swinging upward with all of the strength in his right arm.

The staff moved through the air in a blur, smacking right into Freeze's gun as it fired. The bluish-white ice beam shot into the sky as the gun was knocked out of Freeze's hand, spinning through the air wildly.

Freeze tried to react, tried to move foreword, but only succeeded in moving into the perfect position to be knocked far off to the side as Robin lashed out laterally. The bo-staff hit Freeze in his shoulder, not enough to really hurt him but enough to knock him off balance.

"Son of a bitch," Robin spat, yanking out the last of his hard-impact batarangs with his left hand and throwing it wildly.

He had aimed for Freeze's bubble-helmet, hoping to break it open and completely incapacitate him (the fact that it could kill him, too, was a concern that was currently on the back-burner).

Instead, the batarang whacked into Freeze's shoulder, inciting a grunt as he was shoved off of his feet and through the broken windows of the jewelry store.

Dammit.

He should've used his right hand.

Robin sucked in and held his breath, biting his bottom lip as he pushed up off of the ground and used his frozen right leg as a partial support. He nearly screamed and collapsed, but instead used his pain to help him focus, stabbing his bo-staff into the street, using it to help lift him off of the ground. Again, he tried to put weight on his right leg, and nearly bit his bottom lip off, feeling the taste of warm blood in his mouth as his teeth broke the skin.

Freeze was, by now, on his feet and stomping towards his cold gun.

Withdrawing one of the flash bang capsules from his utility belt, Robin screamed a garbled war cry at Freeze and pitched the capsule right at him, then shielded his eyes.

The capsule impacted Freeze squarely in the chest, exploding on impact in a bright, deafening blast. Freeze bellowed in pain and disorientation, temporarily blind and partially deaf.

Gritting his teeth, Robin used his bo-staff as a crutch and began to hobble away as fast as he could, looking for some way to retreat.

The thought occurred to him of pulling out the grappling gun and trying to swing away, but he had no idea how he'd maintain balance or control with an immovable, dead-weight leg.

Plus, it was frozen solid and brittle enough that, if he landed hard enough, Tim was afraid that his leg might actually break off.

Stumbling into an alley, digging his teeth further into the cuts in his bottom lip, Tim thought of who he could possibly call for help.

His mask's transceiver/receiver was broken when Freeze pistol-whipped him.

Tim's mind was racing in every direction, unable to think about really anything but the pain.

In the back of his head, he remembered putting his cell phone in one of the pouches of his utility belt. Withdrawing it, Tim tried to remember the number that Bruce, Barbara, Dick, or _anyone_ could be reached by. He couldn't remember any of them; the pain all over his leg was scrambling his thoughts.

The only number that seemed to come to mind was 597-0607.

Ben…Ben Edwards, wasn't it?

He was closer to him than Bruce or Barb.

What could he do to help, though?

He couldn't think straight now, all he knew was that he needed help. Any kind of help, or Freeze would kill him, no matter how hard Tim fought.

Barely holding on to his consciousness, Tim began to dial.


	5. Chapter 4: Cold Hard Bitch

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter generally serves as the catalyst for the restof the story, setting up the relationship between Ben and Tim as they get caught up in some very rotten stuff in Gotham City. Once again, please review me. Pretty please. Review review review. I love you all. Show you love me! Lol enjoy.

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Ben's mother only cooked for him when she _really_ wanted to talk. More than just a bit of a social butterfly, Katrina Edwards was normally out at some type of dinner party or city function, many times not coming home for bed. Ben wouldn't have been surprised if his mother was having an affair behind his father's back.

This was not to say that Ben didn't love his mother; there was just a certain jadedness with which he loved her. It could best be said that Ben loved his mother the most when he knew the least about her.

By that logic, whenever his mother cooked for him, it was not a pleasant experience, usually because his mother needed to get something off her chest or vent some irrelevant measure of vacuous gossip. And it didn't help that her cooking was slightly atrocious.

Reclining as best he could in the stylish black leather dinner chairs of the penthouse's dining room table, Ben put on the best performance of his life in hiding his disgust at the dish that his mother placed before him with a smile.

Her long, manicured fingernails and soft hands gave an awful contrast to the lifeless, sludge like beef stroganoff on the plate that she held. As it clacked on the glass of the dinner table, Ben made a modest effort to push out of his mind how the dish looked less like creamy beef with rice and more like a mass of oozing, infectious diarrhea infested with maggots.

Ben would admit to being raised perhaps a bit more affluently than most, which might've lent him a somewhat snobbish view towards food, but he was damn sure that _grey_-colored meat was unappetizing to everyone.

He feigned a smile and followed his mother's arm with his eyes, tracing the cashmere sweater up to her shoulders, then focusing on the face with the long, permed, mahogany hair, the brown eyes and the full lips, painted devil red like her nails.

Katrina smiled back, more the smile that a realtor might give to a client than one that a mother might give to her son.

She daintily walked around to the other side of the table, grabbing a glass of white wine from the kitchen countertop, then sat down across from him, staring at him intently.

"How was your day, honey?" Katrina inquired.

"Well, I woke up, and I went over to Robins--", Ben started, only to be cut off by his mother raising her hand to stop him as she took a sip of wine.

Ben went silent and waited patiently as Katrina closed her eyes and took her time slurping down her wine (rather loudly), tipping the stem of the wineglass upwards.

Katrina set the glass down and swished the wine around in her mouth before gulping it down with finality, then she opened her eyes and nodded for him to continue.

"I went to Robinson Park", Ben continued in a strained monotone, "Walked around a bit. Met someone I knew back at school. Then went back to sleep a bit more. Then I came home. Did you know that the Mayor got the boot?"

"Oh, yes, I heard!" Katrina replied with a bright, saccharine laugh that Ben had a feeling might be faked.

"You know what that means, though", Katrina insisted, "It means your father's going to get a bit busier these days working for Jacqueline King. King's a charming woman, especially for her age. Kind of reminds me of Hilary Clinton, except a bit less manly. And she's got excellent fashion sense".

"What about her politics?" Ben sighed.

Katrina sniffed and rolled her eyes, scoffing, "Oh Ben, she's running for _mayor_, not president; who cares? It's not as if the politics of a _municipal_ politician makes a difference. That's like asking someone if they're a Christian and caring whether they're a Methodist or a Baptist. What does it matter as long as they're not Catholic?"

Ben suppressed a grimace. His mother's snobbery was at times overwhelming.

"Anyway, Ben, I was at Veronica Vreeland's party last night, and I saw Chloe Shannon there. She's a darling, and her sweet 16 is coming up. Her debut is supposed to be not too long afterward. She'd love to see you sometime…" Katrina purred.

"That makes one of us…" Ben muttered.

"What?" Katrina inquired in a somewhat demanding way.

"Nothing, Mom", Ben replied.

Of all of the girls that his mother had tried to set him up with, Chloe Shannon was without a doubt the worst. It wasn't just that she was a spoiled, void dumb bunny type; Ben could've stood that due to her near perfect (mostly surgical or store bought) body. He'd met her about a year ago at her 15th birthday party, held at a chic hotel that most people couldn't afford a room at. Ben and Chloe were making out practically ten minutes after meeting each other, and he was feeling pretty good about both himself and her. Afterwards, a friend of Ben's informed him that Chloe had given Chris Rodriguez a gratuitous blow job barely fifteen minutes before she had _kissed_ Ben.

Ben spent the rest of the night trying to drown him self in mouthwash and shame.

"Honey", Katrina whispered, as if Ben had just made some embarrassing faux pas, "You haven't touched your stroganoff".

Ben looked down at the congealing mess on the plate below to discover that it hadn't gotten any more appetizing. Stifling a cringe as much as possible, he picked up his fork and scooped up a small helping of the slop.

Quickly thinking of how he might get out of this, Ben asked his mother, "How was your day?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe!" Katrina enunciated, leaning back and staring at the ceiling for dramatic effect like she always did.

Ben quietly and calmly put his fork down, knowing full well that his mother would be far too engrossed with talking about herself to notice that he hadn't taken a bite.

"First, I had this miserable hangover from Veronica's party. I _told_ her those sake bombs were too much for a woman of my stature!" Katrina bemoaned, "Then, I tried to get a hold of Carmen to see if she'd go over to the spa or the massage parlor with me to get rid of the hangover, but she just _had _to go to Rio. Then I called Enrique and he was decorating someone's loft or something, so he couldn't go, so I had to call Beatrix Laughton, and you know how much I secretly hate that woman."

"Then why don't you tell her off instead of hanging out with her?" Ben inquired.

"Because her friends are my friends, Ben. It just wouldn't be pleasant. It would create awkward moments, and I think I'd rather die than be embarrassed like that," Katrina explained nonchalantly.

"Then why not just go to the spa alone?" Ben investigated further.

"That's not even _funny_, Ben", Katrina responded indignantly, "And stop interrupting. Didn't _you _ask _me _how _my _day was?"

"Starting to wish I hadn't…" Ben murmured.

Katrina sniffed huffily, then scolded, "Ben, it's rude to mumble. It makes you look either drunk or stupid."

There was something comical about the way his mother spoke when she was annoyed. She always ended her sentences with an upward inflection, as if everything was a question.

Ben smiled hollowly at her, almost positive that she _had _to have heard the things he was saying under his breath, but chose to ignore them for the chance to talk about herself. More and more, Ben was beginning to suspect that he was the only one in Katrina's life that would actually tolerate it. Either that, or she hated her friends so much because they were exactly like her.

"Anyway, I had to go to the spa with Beatrix, and she couldn't stop talking about this custom-made Dolce and Gabbana purse that she got that's practically illegal to own because they killed the cow right when it was falling out of it's mother's womb to get the softest leather possible. And it's _impossible_ to get anywhere but Milan because PETA or the SPCA or the YMCA or something is throwing a shit-fit over the whole thing."

"Mom, the YMCA's a _gym_, they don't do animals," Ben interjected monotonously.

"What did I say about interrupting, Ben?!" Katrina snapped, again with the upward inflection.

Ben stared up at the ceiling as his mother droned on about slaughtering cows for overpriced leather ware. He got the image of his head of what his mother must've looked like last night, surrounded by a pack of stuck-up rich bitches chanting "Sake-sake-sake-BOMB!!" and instantly burst out laughing.

His mother stopped suddenly and gave him a look of disgust.

"Are you even _listening _to me, Ben?!" Katrina demanded, like it was some sort of blasphemy to do anything otherwise.

Before he could answer, Ben's cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket, the ring tone playing the opening guitar riff to The Who song "Baba O'Reilly".

Thankful for his phone's impeccable timing, Ben pulled it out and flipped it open, putting it to his ear.

"Buenos noches", Ben greeted in a teasing tone, taking pleasure in his mother's bemusement.

"BEN…!", a hoarse voice burst out from the other end.

"Hello…?" Ben inquired oddly into the phone.

"I ne—I need your help, B-B-Ben… It's—Its—its Tim…It's Tim Drake…" the strained voice on the other end begged.

"Oh, hey, Tim!" Ben greeted cheerfully, not quite getting it yet.

"…stupid little shit…I, heh, I need your HELP, Ben!!" Tim hissed.

"Tim…you don't sound too good. You alright, man?" Ben asked with concern.

"No, I'm dying", Tim snapped, "Ben—Ben, li—listen to me…Chinatown…I'm in Chinatown"

"Where in Chinatown?" Ben inquired, suddenly alert and serious.

"Near Miller Street…please, Jesus, be careful…" Tim choked out, then hung up.

Ben stared at the phone and thought about calling the police to help Tim, but knew that it would've been a useless gesture. It was proven that if someone were to call for a pizza delivery and call for the cops at the exact same time in Gotham City, the pizza would arrive at least half an hour before the cops showed up, if they did show up at all.

"Mom, I've got to go", Ben suddenly said, getting up off of his chair and beginning to walk towards the door to the penthouse.

"But you haven't finished your dinner!" Katrina protested.

"Friend in need, duty calls", Ben answered without stopping.

"Okay, just wait one second!" Katrina called.

Rolling his eyes, Ben looked back and demanded softly, "What?"

"Well, it's just that, with your father in Metropolis, there have been quite a bit of _other_ men noticing me lately. I'd _never_ do anything behind your father's back mind you, but I just--"

"MOM", Ben interrupted, "I have to go".

"I'll get to the point!" Katrina protested, "Anyway, this lovely gentleman sent me flowers. Well, I don't know if he's lovely, I've never seen him, but--"

"MOM", Ben growled.

"He left a note with the flowers", Katrina said, getting to the point, "It said: 'My lovely lady, your husband is a luckier man than he will ever know. Love Oscar.' I wonder if it's just any old Oscar, or if it's a famous Oscar like Oscar de la Renta."

"Maybe it's Oscar Meyer", Ben offered sardonically, then opened the door and headed out.

Just as his mother called to him, "Who's Oscar Meyer?" Ben slammed the door in her face and sprinted down the hallway, pressing the elevator call button.

Contrary to the long wait he had to give this morning, the elevator dinged almost instantly, and the doors opened to reveal an elevator with a single passenger, an older woman in a long red velvet robe. She looked up, her short-cropped white hair catching the light, and Ben was almost surprised to see that it was Mrs. Kaier once again.

Just as she was saying hello, Ben had hopped into the elevator and pressed the button for the parking garage.

"We just keep running into each other today, don't we, Benjamin?" Mrs. Kaier inquired.

"And what are _you_ doing, walking around in a cozy little thing like that?" Ben responded, unable to resist the opportunity to return fire.

"I was headed down to the 15th floor, to Molly Gallagher's apartment. It's our weekly bridge game with Luella Harkin and Susan Brady", Mrs. Kaier answered.

"Strip-bridge?" Ben inquired with a grin.

"Now how did you know _that_?" Mrs. Kaier responded with a wink.

Ben just smiled at her.

"So what are you up to, Benjamin? Out prowling the night for some young thing to ravish? Be careful, I might get jealous", Mrs. Kaier prodded.

"You know there's always a special place in my heart for you, Mrs. Kaier", Ben answered, "Tonight, though, I'm actually out trying to help a friend in need. Or at least I think so…"

"Saving lives are you, Benjamin?" Mrs. Kaier retorted with a raised eyebrow.

"Now how did you know _that_?" Benjamin said, throwing her words back at her.

Mrs. Kaier just smiled and giggled in amusement as the elevator dinged on the 15th floor.

"Gotham needs more young men like you, Benjamin," Mrs. Kaier sighed as she cat-walked out of the elevator and blew him a kiss, "Go get 'em, tiger."

Ben smiled and made a gesture as if to catch the kiss she had just blown him, pressing it to his heart as the elevator doors slid shut.

Within a moment or two, the elevator dinged and deposited him into the artificial lighting of the garage, where Ben sprinted across the concrete and up towards the ramp that led to the street. The quartz lights buzzed above him and reflected off of the white painted concrete as Ben happened across a shiny black Vespa LX motor scooter.

His mother had fell in love with Vespas after a trip to Italy, and had gotten Ben one as a present instead of a car. Personally, Ben thought it was kind of gay.

But it was all that he had in case he needed to get somewhere fast, and he had to admit that it could cut through a traffic jam like a blowtorch through butter.

He quickly opened up the saddlebag and pulled out the stahlhelm-like helmet, clipping the chinstrap together to secure it to his head, then pulled out his keys, straddled the Vespa and turned her on.

The motor scooter whined to life with its distinctive buzz. Had Ben not been in a hurry, he would've found it anticlimactic.

Disengaging the kickstand, Ben backed the Vespa out of its parking space, lining it up with the concrete ramp, then put both of his feet up on the floorboard.

With a sudden jerk on the handle, Ben throttled the Vespa up and it buzzed loudly, rocketing him up the ramp and into the nighttime traffic of Gotham City.

Unlike the extreme days, nighttime in Gotham was unusually temperate.  
Aside from during the peak of winter, Gotham's nights were pleasantly cool, as if the city was meant for the night.

The traffic, however, was no less hectic or threatening.

With cars beeping and honking and whizzing by, Ben had to weave in and out of traffic and sometimes swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid getting hit.

More than a few times as he zoomed in between cars, he received a specific four letter expletive accompanied by a honk just to remind him.

The journey to Chinatown would not be that hard; from the Diamond District Ben would just have to follow Fourth Street to the Upper West Side, then take 60th Street south into Chinatown, then work his way over to 75th and ride that up to Miller.

Not too difficult.

Ben accelerated the Vespa in between a pair of yellow taxis, shooting across an intersection and beating a yellow light just as it turned red.

Gotham City flew past him in a blur of wind, lights, sounds and colors, the cool air pressing against his face as the headlight of the Vespa glowed brightly to show him the way.

The sea of twin ruby taillights in front of him turned into an ocean of twin diamond headlights as he flew between and around cars, quickly leaving the Diamond District and entering the rather liberal Upper East Side. Though the architecture of this section of town wasn't exactly distinctive, it was a traditionally upper middle class neighborhood that decreased in income as one went further south. There were probably more Starbucks Coffee shops in greater concentration in the Upper East Side than anywhere else in the city.

Ben gripped the throttle tighter, pushing the Vespa to its limits and nearly running over a pair of college age girls as they jaywalked across Fourth Street.

Ben swerved and grabbed both of the hand brakes, stretching out his right leg as the Vespa wobbled and tipped to the side.

His foot hit the asphalt and scraped a bit, his right knee absorbing the shock of the impact as the Vespa screeched to a stop.

Ben whipped his head over at the college girls as they yelled something at him in a harsh tone.

He raised his middle finger to the co-ed bimbos violently, then re-oriented the Vespa and took off back down the street.

Ben almost missed the turn onto 60th Street, banking hard into the intersection and nearly getting clipped by an overzealous driver in a Mercedes.

He would've returned the insult that the driver shouted at him, had he been able to hear it.

Ben continued down 60th Street, his mind wondering as Gotham blurred past.

What was going on with Tim? Did he get himself in some kind of trouble?

Perhaps Ben was just walking into a bad situation. Could he really do anything to help the guy if he was seriously hurt?

As he began to consider turning back, Ben thrust his head forward and gripped the handlebars tighter.

It didn't matter. Tim needed his help, somehow. And Ben wasn't going to let someone down if they needed him.

The Upper West Side began to morph into Chinatown, the sidewalks becoming more crowded and the buildings labeled with glowing signs written in Mandarin. Traffic seemed to be jammed up here, forcing Ben to ride the lines of the road almost exclusively. As he slowed down a bit to maintain safe control, Ben could smell the warm, buttery odor of the various fried Asian foods at all of the nearby restaurants.

It wasn't long before he found himself at the turn to Chaney Avenue, where he followed the streets as they continued from 61st Street, going all the way up to 75th Street. For some reason, traffic seemed nearly at a standstill here, which led Ben to wonder what the hell was going on in this part of town, and what Tim had to do with it.

At 72nd Street, Ben was forced to stop the Vespa and walk it through the lanes of frozen, honking traffic, the streets being just too congested to safely pilot through.

He continued on past the roaring, angry drivers in their cars that lied down on their horns and screamed at each other as if it would make a difference.

Two streets later, as he reached 74th Street, Ben saw a pair of police cruisers and a barricade blocking further entrance to the street or to the section of Chinatown beyond it. Moving faster and shoving the Vespa along, Ben approached one of the cops standing by the barricade, only to be stopped with a fierce raised hand.

"Keep heading down Chaney, kid", the cop dismissed.

"What's going on?" Ben asked urgently.

"This section of town's cordoned off. There's been an accident. Move along", the cop said once more, this time with a little more force.

Ben looked at the cop and looked further down Chaney Avenue, seeing further barricades at nearby streets blocking entry.

As Ben began to lead the Vespa up onto the sidewalk, he once more considered just going home. The cops were already there. Tim would be fine, if he wasn't already being rescued.

Ben would've gotten back on the scooter and rode home right then, if he hadn't looked up into the night sky at that moment.

Shining brighter than the moon, reflecting off of a patch of dark clouds, was the unmistakable yellow ellipse and winged shape of the Bat-Signal.

He stared at it in the sky, glowing urgently for all to see, and it paralyzed Ben in his place with awe.

Somewhere, someone in the city needed Batman.

Just like Tim needed him.

Ben had to make sure that Tim was all right.

With a sudden drive of determination, Ben parked the Vespa against a light post on the sidewalk, pocketing the keys.

He hoped that, with the cops so close, no one would try to steal it.

The fact that this did little to deter most criminals in Gotham only made Ben even more hesitant.

Ben then looked back at the barricade and the GCPD cruisers with their flashing lights.

Both of the cops were focused more on the traffic jam and looking the other way, and the off-key orchestra of honks and yells from the jammed river of cars covered any sounds of his movement.

Taking his chance, Ben quietly walked up to the barricade, staying out of the policemen's current line of sight, and quickly darted behind the barricade into 74th Street.

Looking back cautiously to see that the cops still hadn't noticed, Ben rushed up the street to try to get out of any possible view.

As soon as he was nearing the end of 74th Street and the beginning of 75th, Ben looked back once more to see that he still had yet to be discovered, and smiled mischievously.

Turning the corner onto the intersection of Varley Row and 75th, Ben froze in confusion and dismay.

Aside from the street in front of him being completely empty, it was also, for some reason, completely wrong.

Drained of texture, almost every surface seemed to be covered in plastic wrap or covered in a whitish, frosty layer.

Ben ran down Varley Row to further investigate, and stopped in his tracks with dread. The street wasn't covered with plastic wrap. It was _ice_.

Almost everything on Varley Row, the buildings, the cars, the light posts, everything, seemed to be covered in a layer of ice.

His eyes darted to every frigid surface, unable to understand how things could be even remotely like this in the middle of summer.

As Ben scanned the street further, his eyes went wide with terror as he saw a frozen police cruiser halfway parked on the sidewalk, and a uniformed policeman with his sidearm drawn frozen still as a sculpture in a block of cold, hard ice.

The frozen cop had a look of both pain and surprise on his face, as if he'd had barely a moment to react before getting petrified.

Ben wanted to cry out, but his body wouldn't let him; his throat frozen in horror and his lungs too full of frigid air to do anything but moan.

He closed his mouth and gulped, exhaling in a cloud of white steam.

There was only one reason that this all could be possible, and it was also probably the reason that the Bat-Signal lit up the night sky of Gotham: Mr. Freeze.

Ben knew well about Gotham's criminal element, perhaps better than most Gothamites, and he knew that Mr. Freeze was one of the worst super-criminals to run into.

Most villains wanted money or were easy enough to avoid.

Mr. Freeze wanted people to _suffer_.

Ben's body began to shake, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he got the feeling of being watched. His eyes once again darted all over the frozen street, but the only other person in sight was the dead, frozen policeman.

"Ben…", someone huffed from nearby, and Ben nearly took off running in terror.

As he collected himself, he realized that the person calling to him could only be Tim.

"Tim?" Ben called out, fearing to call too loudly.

"Over here", Tim's voice hissed from a nearby alley.

Ben looked in the direction of the voice, seeing a human silhouette beckoning at him weakly from a nearby alley.

He approached the alley quickly, again looking around the street to see if there was anyone else, and didn't look at Tim until he was practically right in front of him.

"Tim, what the hell is going on he--", Ben began to say, then stopped as soon as he saw Tim in the shadows of the alley.

Ben could barely recognize Tim, and it wasn't just because his lip was bleeding pretty bad and his forehead looked bruised.

It was because he was wearing a red and black suit with a golden metal "R" on the breast, and a black cape with yellow lining around his neck that was scalloped at the end in the way that it vaguely suggested bird feathers. Around his waist was a thick yellow belt of some sorts. In his gauntleted hand, he gripped a tall steel bo staff, leaning on it like a crutch.

On his face was a black domino mask, but Ben could just recognize Tim from his eyes and his black hair, even though his eyes were filled with pain and panic and his hair was soaked in sweat.

Ben stared at Tim for a moment or two, and then said the first words that came to mind.

"Tim…why are you dressed up like--" Ben began to say, but abruptly stopped himself when he realized the gravity of the situation.

The only explanation for Tim being dressed up like Robin…was that Tim _was_ Robin.

Ben's jaw hung slack a bit, and he whispered weakly in shock, "…Tim?"

Tim just looked at him through the mask with a grave stare, saying nothing.

His silence said more than any words could have.

Ben stepped back just a half step, suddenly out of breath.

"Oh shit", Ben breathed, unable to comprehend what his eyes were telling him.

"Ben…there's no time. I need your help…" Tim explained raggedly, gesturing down with his eyes to his right leg.

Ben followed Tim's gaze and saw that Tim's leg was stiff, covered with a white sheen of frost and gripped with patches of ice crystals.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Ben whispered in horror.

"My leg's frozen, genius!" Tim hissed.

"You can't, like, thaw it out or something?" Ben professed.

"No", Tim growled, "It's a _chemical _freezing as well as a tem-temperature thing. It's what Freeze's gun _does_. It d-doesn't just freeze biological matter solid…it re-works the mol-molecular structure into ice. The sick twist makes it so the freezing shit's permanent if it lasts m-more than an hour or so."

"What?" Ben asked in confusion.

"If I try to just melt it, my _leg _will melt!" Tim snarled, gritting his teeth, "And if I don't put it in a chemical bath in about f-forty-f-five minutes, it won't m-matter!"

"Oh, Christ", Ben murmured.

"Ben…" Tim urged, "We have to get out of here…He's right behind--"

Tim's words were silenced by the sounds of heavy footsteps close behind.

Tim—or Robin, Ben wasn't sure how to think of him right now—looked down the alley, then back at Ben with an expression of fear.

"Go. Now!" Tim hissed, pushing forward with his left leg and catching himself with his bo-staff, limping into the street as the footsteps got closer.

"I'm not gonna leave you here", Ben argued, taking Tim's right arm and putting it over his shoulder, grasping Tim's waist and trying to support his walking so that they could move faster.

They moved across the slippery, frozen asphalt slowly, heading for an alley across the street.

Their feet crunched on the frozen ground and they nearly lost their footing to a particularly slippery patch of black ice, Tim grunting in pain as Ben strained to support him.

With his arm around Tim's waist, feeling both the tense muscles of his back and the heavy caress of Robin's cape, Ben had to admit that they must've looked pretty ridiculous.

Just as Tim stabbed his bo-staff into the sidewalk, he looked over his shoulder and sucked in a gasp, then sprung forward with his left leg and launched both himself and Ben into a dive towards the ground. As they fell, collapsing behind a car frozen in a block of ice, Ben heard a distinctive, loud hum-like blast, and a bluish-white beam of condensed light, surrounded by vapor, slammed into the wall that they had previously been facing.

Ben stared at it as the wall turned white with the crunching sound of rapid freezing and as the beam disappeared.

At the place where the beam had hit the wall, a newly formed sheet of ice had bloomed in nearly an instant.

His clothes soaking up the water from the melting ice on the sidewalk, Ben looked under the car they had fallen beside, his cheeks stinging from the cold.

On the street stepped a pair of heavy grey boots, stomping methodically towards them.

"Ben!" Tim whispered, holding up a small black ball slightly smaller than a tennis ball, "Throw this at him as hard as you can."

Ben just stared at Tim, wide eyed and with a look of dismay, and then Tim thrust the ball into Ben's hand forcefully.

Ben looked at the ball for a second, then began to get up, only to be pulled back down by the collar of his shirt by Tim.

"Don't let him see you!" Tim hissed.

Ben looked back in the direction of the approaching boots, hearing a series of steps approaching. His heart was racing at hundreds of miles per hour; he wasn't even sure if he could move.

"Wait for him to get closer," Tim instructed, "Then peek around the bumper of the car, and throw it right at him. Don't stop for a second. Just do it."

Ben shivered slightly as the footsteps got louder, louder, louder.

There was a shadow on the wall of the building facing them, showing a figure with a man's body but shoulders that were much too big and a bubble or something around his head.

"Wait", Tim whispered, just under his breath.

The footsteps scraped on the patch of black ice that Tim and he had nearly slipped on barely a moment ago. The guy had to be just around the corner of the damn car!

"Wait", Tim urged.

Ben looked at Tim as if he was crazy.

"Now!" Tim spat, shoving Ben forward.

Ben scooted forward and wound up his arm, then peeked around the bumper of the car and tossed the black ball hard, without even looking.

Almost immediately after he threw the ball, there was the sound of a loud bursting and a massive cloud of smoke began to billow amongst a surprised grunt that didn't sound entirely human. The boots and the owner disappeared in the deluge of blinding white clouds.

Lifting his right leg up as much as he could, Tim balanced in a push-up position on his left leg, got low to the ground and with a mighty heave he pushed against the ground.

Tim bounded up enough for him to grab onto the edge of the car's trunk, and let out a yell of pain as his leg bounced on the sidewalk. Ben would've been thoroughly impressed if he hadn't been so terrified. He quickly got up himself, picking up Robin's bo staff and handing it to him before grabbing him and again supporting him as they attempted to flee.

Ben was practically dragging Tim along the sidewalk at this point, leading him along as he hissed in pain.

They were traveling under a rather large Chinese sign hanging out over the street from the building next to them when they heard the blasting hum again.

Ben looked up to see the large sign above their heads being struck by the white beam and blooming a massive amount of ice crystals, then heard the groaning of old, cheap metal as the sign bucked forward from the sudden extra weight of the ice.

Tim gasped and shoved Ben away, inadvertently letting go of his bo staff.

Tim accidentally rested on his frozen right leg and let out a howl of pain, using his left leg to direct his fall backwards as the sign snapped free and plunged to the ground.

The sign hit the sidewalk with a resounding bang, shattering the plastic, glass and ice that the mass of it was composed of.

Ben finally composed himself and looked over to where Tim lay, and saw a figure approaching from the dissipating cloud of smoke.

The figure wore what looked like a space suit, his head in a big, clear bubble and glowing red goggles over his eyes. The moon man was bald, and his skin had a grayish look to it.

The moonlight danced off of the curves of the moon man's bubble, and for a few seconds as he walked towards Robin, Ben almost didn't notice the odd-looking gun in the guy's hand.

Mr. Freeze looked somehow comical and scary at the same time.

As Freeze approached Robin, the gaze of the red goggles fell upon Ben, and it chilled Ben's blood just as definitely as the freezing gun would have.

Freeze seemed to dismiss Ben, looking back at Robin, who was crumpled on the ground before him.

"It's no use, boy. You've only doomed yourself, and this poor bystander by fighting", Freeze growled, and Ben found himself gripped by the lack of humanity in his voice.

A computer could've just as easily made the sounds.

"I suppose you want me to have mercy on you, my boy?" Freeze rumbled somewhat mockingly.

Robin grimaced and glared up at Mr. Freeze.

"Go to hell", Robin whispered.

Freeze smiled coldly.

"Save me a place there", Mr. Freeze countered.

Ben saw Mr. Freeze moving to raise his gun, and then Ben saw the steel bo staff lying so very near to him, and there was only one thing that he could do.

Throwing himself onto his feet, squashing down the fear in his heart into his stomach, Ben grabbed the staff and started charging towards Freeze.

"HEY!" Ben roared, and the piercing gaze of the red goggles fell on him.

Just as Freeze was moving his arm to take aim at him, Ben was swinging the bo staff as hard as he possibly could.

There was the loud, high-pitched crunch of cracking glass and the hiss of escaping gas as Mr. Freeze cried out and fell backward.

The arm holding the ice gun flew wildly into the air and fired, searing the sky with the bluish white ice beam as Ben ducked down in panic.

As Freeze's body hit the ground, the gun fell out of his hand, and he began to choke and roar in panic and discomfort as gasses began to leak from the section of his head-bubble that Ben had cracked.

As Mr. Freeze writhed in seizures on the ground, Ben let out a relieved smile and looked back at Robin, who looked just as relieved.

"Ben", Robin said urgently, "Get his gun. H-hurry, we can't leave him like that."

"What do you mean?" Ben argued over the gasps of Mr. Freeze.

"His body needs that suit. He's he-heating up", Robin said, gritting his teeth as he tried to move his leg slightly, "If his body reaches free-freezing point, he-he'll roast to death."

"He was gonna kill us!" Ben argued.

"THAT DOESN'T MATTER!!" Robin bellowed, so loudly that it made Ben step back a bit, "We don't kill. Got it?"

Ben paused for a second, then nodded.

Quickly, but carefully, Ben picked up the freezing gun, finding it surprisingly heavy, and held onto the icy pistol grip as best he could.

"Do just a quick once-over", Tim instructed raggedly, "His head to his shoulders. Kinda…kinda like a light touch with an airbrush or a… I don't know what. Just d-don't be excessive. W-wax on, wax off."

Ben nodded quietly, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked slightly and hummed, the bluish white beam striking Mr. Freeze's bubble, and Ben followed Tim's directions, tracing the line of fire from Freeze's head down to his shoulders and his waist, then released the trigger.

There was a small mist of icy vapor in the air, and when Ben looked back at him, he saw Mr. Freeze coated from the top of his helmet down to the beginnings of his waist in a somewhat thick layer of ice.

From behind the distorted layer of frost, the glowing goggles blinked and glared back at him, but otherwise Mr. Freeze was unmoving and unresponsive.

Ben stepped back and smiled at Tim, who smiled back wearily.

He approached Robin tiredly, laying the freezing gun at his feet and kneeling down beside him.

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, in which Ben allowed his heart to slow down and return to normal before he said, "You've got one _hell_ of a summer job, Tim."

Tim just burst out laughing, a tired kind of laugh that seemed to distract him slightly from the excruciating pain he was feeling.

Robin smiled at him and exhaled, then looked off distantly.

"Is there anything I can do?" Ben asked tentatively, looking back at Tim's leg.

"You've done enough, Ben. Thanks," Tim said graciously, "Do me a favor, and see if you can get a towel or something. The rest of me could still get hypothermia from all of this."

"Sure," Ben nodded, then got up and began to walk towards some thrift store near the end of the street, hoping that they might have some tee shirts or something to help insulate Tim's leg.

Ben had barely gotten a few steps before a massive shadow fell over him, and he looked up as he heard the whoosh of something flying through the air.

Ben gasped as a gigantic black shape fell from the rooftops above, demonic wings spread with terrific fury.

His brain told him to run in terror from the shape as it hit the ground with a light tap of feet and the swirling of leather wings.

The shape rose to full height, towering over him, and Ben saw that it had ears, pointing straight up like painfully sharp horns from it's strong head.

It's hard eyes, blue and piercing to the point that they seemed to look into his soul, rocked Ben to his core as they glowered at him.

As the shape took a step forward, Ben's heart skipped a beat, and his jaw went slack with astonishment.

Only when the creature was nearly before him did Ben notice the vague symbol of a bat on its chest, or the yellow belt around its waist.

He was in such a state of stupefaction that it never occurred to him that the exposed jaw, strong enough to be carved out of granite, might've belonged to a man rather than a monster.

The shape's eyes softened only slightly as it approached him, then dismissed him and walked by, it's wings swirling behind it.

Ben looked over to where the thing was headed, and panicked to see it approaching Tim.

He was almost confused when he saw the comforted smile on Tim's face as the bat-like shape approached.

"Tim?" Ben called in confusion, and the thing whipped around to face him as if he had uttered some sacrilege.

Ben's breath was taken away by the hard leer that the bat-creature gave him.

Tim frowned with disappointment, and smiled sheepishly as the shape looked back at him.

The bat-shape gave Ben one final look before setting upon Tim, in a way that Ben feared that Tim was about to be devoured by the Bat.

His fears were put at ease as the Bat rose with Tim in its arms, it's limp wings embracing him ever so slightly.

The Bat continued across the sidewalk and turned down an alley, disappearing almost instantly.

Ben began to follow after them, and only then did he notice one of those black balls lying on the sidewalk near the alleyway.

He stepped back in alarm as the ball exploded in a cloud of disorienting, white smoke that rocked Ben with a fit of coughing.

As Ben stumbled backwards, he slipped on the ice of the street and fell on his bum, still hacking and halfway blind from the smoke.

He had to crawl backwards for some time before the smoke was even thin enough to see some semblance of the outside areas in, and finally Ben was able to pull himself up and gain his balance.

He stepped further back to fully get out of the billowing smoke cloud, and waited a matter of minutes for it to clear.

By the time that the smoke was completely gone, he knew that it was pointless to see if they were still in the alley. They were doubtless long gone.

Exhaling a sigh of wonder and amazement, Ben looked up at the sky and once again saw the Bat Signal lighting up the sky over Gotham City.

At that point, it finally hit Ben.

That monster, that shape, that thing Ben had seen:

That was _Batman_.

He had actually seen Batman, in the flesh.

Ben could've reached out and touched him, if he'd had the balls to at the time.

"…Holy shit", Ben whispered.

He really should've brought his journal along.


	6. 5: Something Rotten in the Rotten Town

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A slightly smaller chapter for you, but you really do get what the name implies. There is something super-bad going on in Gotham. Also, if you can spot the reference to the recent South Park episode, "Major Boobage", kudos to you. Enjoy.

* * *

Ben Edwards' Journal Ben Edwards' Journal

July 20th

To quote Keanu Reeves: WOAH.

Let me say that again: WOAH. Fucking WOAH.

I'm not sure how much of this I can put on the Internet, but let me say that if I knew that Tim Drake was Robin when I went to school with him, I really would've hung out with the kid more. I mean, how cool is that? You get to ride around in the Bat-car all the time, kick asses and take names, and you get to hang out with the coolest guy on the planet all night long. It must rock. Whenever you're not getting your leg frozen solid, I guess.

I also could be a potential millionaire with the stuff I collected last night. Not only did I get to tease, sit on and play the steel drum solo from "Kokomo" on Mr. Freeze's frozen helmet bubble (I've got the camera phone pictures to prove it. Just try texting me and see what happens.) but I've also got Robin's ninja-staff thingy!

Do you have any idea how much I could get for that off of EBay?

There's like millions of people that would give their left testicle to own some official Bat-merchandise.

Assuming that I'd ever sell the ninja-staff thingy. You never know. Tim might just come by and ask for it back.

Even if he doesn't, it means that I've got one wicked cool trophy to put up on my wall now. Newspaper clippings aint nothing next to something like that.

I wonder how many faces that thing has broken? Who knows? Maybe he used it to smack the Joker around. Then it would be worth a FORTUNE.

I remember this one time when I went to a Linkin Park concert with Rob Stephens, and his dad was able to get us backstage passes. When Rob met Mike Shinoda, and then told me that he nearly creamed in his pants and was going to die happy, I thought he was a complete tool.

Rob, I take it all back, because, after meeting Batman, I know that I'm going to die happy.

I can only imagine the first day of senior year at Brentwood Academy, when I go back there September 1st and somebody asks me "Hey Ben, what did you do over summer?" and I say, "Lets see…I hung around the house, worked out, went to Amusement Mile…oh, yeah, and I saved Robin's life, I kicked Mr. Freeze's ass and I met BATMAN!!"

You can bet your sweet ass they'll all be saying "WOAH" too.

* * *

One Week Later

_Friday, July 27__th_

_Gotham City, 11:00 am_

No one ever called him The Penguin. At least to his face. After all, if you were to ask anyone in Gotham City, they would tell you that Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was now a legitimate businessman, who, rather like the reformed Edward Nygma (also known as the Riddler), was simply a Gothamite with a somewhat tarnished past.

His past was just a bit more tarnished than others.

Yes, ask any normal person in Gotham, and they would tell you that Oswald Cobblepot and the fearsome gangster known as the Penguin were two very different people.

Then again, all of the city's "normal" people compromised a relatively mediocre school of fish in the insane, bizarre, deviant and completely _ab_normal pond that was Gotham City.

In truth, Oswald Cobblepot had simply become a much better liar, and had become equally better at covering up his lies. No longer lowering himself to pulling off crimes that he could be connected to, Cobblepot controlled much of Gotham City's illegal arms and drug trade, and also acted as a liaison between much of Gotham's unique criminal element and the rest of the world, all while seldom leaving his lavish apartment above the swanky Iceberg Lounge night club.

Located atop the equally swanky Two Gotham Plaza building, nested comfortably in Gotham's Fashion District, the Iceberg Lounge was possibly the most ingenious scheme of the Penguin's life. Cashing in on the popularity of his notorious criminal reputation, the Penguin molded the Iceberg Lounge into one of Gotham's hottest joints, all the while never breaking a single law.

Not even the Batman could really harm him now.

And so, with his control over Gotham's criminal underworld and it's high society tightening, Oswald had recently taken great measures to distance himself from the Penguin nickname, which, ironically, he loathed with a fiery passion.

His grotesquely deformed hands, the both of which previously had the middle, ring, and pinkie fingers fused together in horrendous 'flippers' had been surgically separated into three pleasantly plump if not still somewhat deformed digits. Oswald had taken to wearing opera gloves to hide the scars.

The Penguin's hair had previously been bald at the top and with a stringy length of hair down his back. Several expensive hair transplants had given him a full head of short, well-kept black hair, combed straight back.

He had gotten rid of his obesity, and though he was still quite overweight it beat the hell out of the gargantuan corpulence that had forced him to waddle in the old days.

Sadly, after three rhinoplasties that had tried to shorten or re-shape his nose, Oswald's schnoz was still long and curved and came to a painful point that made it still look like a beak.

And he still wore his nearly iconic tuxedo, top hat, and monocle, and he still always carried an umbrella wherever he went.

So, in many ways, Oswald Cobblepot would never escape the shadow of the Penguin.

And, in many ways that he would never admit, he didn't want to.

Sitting back in his office and staring at the midday skyline of Gotham City, Oswald began to screw a cigarette into his ebony cigarette holder.

The window was framed with several thin bars that made it look as if all of Gotham City was behind the bars of a birdcage.

At both sides of his immaculately carved redwood desk was a perch, upon each of which sat a stoic and lethal peregrine falcon.

Oswald had trained them to respond to voice command alone, and they would attack and dive-bomb anyone in front of them with a word from his lips.

The difficulty was in keeping their droppings off of the desk.

Just as the flame leapt from the lighter to ignite his cigarette, there was a knock on his office door.

"What is it, Miss Jessica?" Oswald answered, taking a drag of his cigarette.

The door opened and a lithe, tall woman with platinum blonde hair, wearing a pleasant blue blouse and smart black pants, peeked in.

Jessica Hirsch was Oswald Cobblepot's secretary, escort, and bodyguard all in one. Ever since he was physically threatened and assaulted by Lex Luthor's female protégé, Mercy Graves, back during No Man's Land, Oswald had grown to understand how dangerous it was to underestimate a woman and how valuable it was to have a woman that would be underestimated at one's side.

Though Miss Jessica wasn't quite a fighter on par with the more super powered variety of crime fighter and criminal, she was still more than enough to deter the common riffraff that one found in great supply in Gotham City.

"Mr. Cobblepot, Jacqueline King and her, erm…associate are here", Miss Jessica informed him.

With wisps of smoke trailing out of his beak, the Penguin responded, "Show them in, Miss Jessica."

Miss Jessica gave a curt nod and opened the door further, showing the two guests in.

The first was an older woman in her mid fifties with short cut blond-grayish hair. Wearing a black pantsuit with red pinstripes, with a red blouse underneath, Jacqueline King wasted no time walking into the room with an assured and confident air, her black high heels clacking on the marble floors.

Following close behind her was a woman in a long black coat over a dark burgundy martial-arts style garb. Her black hair was in a long ponytail that extended down her back; her slightly rounded face and narrowed eyes suggesting a vaguely east Asian descent. Unlike Jacqueline King, she made not a single sound as she walked across the floor.

Without even a greeting, Jacqueline sat down in one of the chairs at the other side of Oswald's desk, causing one of the peregrine falcons to ruffle its feathers, the other to let out a tiny, brief screech.

King's accomplice did not sit, instead folding her arms and standing behind the unoccupied chair.

"Ms. King, what a pleasure to see you this morning," Oswald greeted, ashing his cigarette in one of the dishes that collected the falcon's droppings, "How goes the campaign?"

"Good morning, Oswald," King responded in a professional tone, sitting back in her seat and folding her legs, "It appears we have a problem."

"Not another one I trust?" the Penguin responded with a raised eyebrow, eyeing up King's companion.

The woman looked at Oswald as if he was a cockroach, something to be looked down upon and destroyed. He quickly returned his gaze to Jacqueline King.

"Well, if you still haven't found someone to replace Mr. Freeze, then yes, it is _another_ one." King shrugged in a slightly casual manner that had an undertone of a veiled insult.

"The loss of Victor was…unfortunate. What can I say? The man needs diamonds to power that suit of his. And he's never been the cooperative type; all we could really do is try to dissuade him," Oswald conceded, shaking his head and taking a drag, "When the alternative is that freezing gun of his, all that we could do is let him go. Never the worry, however; there is still quite a myriad of other rogues that we have yet to tap for our felonious little band. Perhaps Firefly or Firebug? They might add an interesting contrast to Victor's skills."

"How we fill his vacancy is _your_ concern, not mine," King responded coldly, "But you know the part of all this that the others _don't_. Mr. Freeze's escape needs to be engineered at some point for the climax of this setup."

"Understood, Ms. King," Penguin retorted with a somewhat condescending nod, smoke trailing out of his nostrils as he readjusted the monocle on his right eye, "Now, before we get to this new concern of yours, perhaps you'd like to introduce me to your lovely companion. I'm afraid we've been frightfully rude to her by not introducing her or offering a seat."

Jacqueline King sighed and gave a half smile, looking at the woman standing behind the unoccupied chair.

Looking slowly back at the Penguin, King replied, "I was going to leave the matter of her until the end, but if you wish…"

"Very much so, Ms. King," Oswald replied, sparing a toothy grin towards the silent woman once again, gripping his cigarette holder in his jaws.

The woman gave him a dead-eyed stare, wrinkling her nose slightly as if she smelled something offensive.

"With the recall election less than a month away, I'm going to be very busy tending to the needs of my campaign. Robert Hayes has already got the Republican ticket. The Democrats are in between picking Norman Kennedy or Larry Conaway, but they'll have their candidate in a few days. I've got to be watching my image, and I can't be on an anti-Batman, anti-super criminal campaign and be seen talking to _the Penguin_," King explained, smiling a bit in response to Oswald's displeasure, "So, instead, you'll be dealing with _her_. She is my representative and my personal enforcer. She will pass on any future orders from me to you. She will ensure that you and those friends of yours over in Burnley follow the plan, and my orders, and she will deal with you if you don't."

The Penguin sniffed and ashed his cigarette once more, then looked back at King.

"Threats aside, which, I might add, I do not appreciate," the Penguin said with a somewhat snobbish air, "_Who_ is she?"

Jacqueline King smiled.

"You know her as Lady Shiva," King responded frigidly.

A look of surprise washed over Oswald's face, his eyes widening to the point that his monocle fell out of his eye socket, tumbling onto his jacket.

Lady Shiva was one of the most feared assassins in the world. Unlike Deathstroke the Terminator, Deadshot, or all of the other costumed criminals that fashioned themselves as assassins, Lady Shiva was the only one of them that didn't need a gun or a knife to kill someone. The only thing she needed, and most of the time the only thing she used, was her bare hands.

"Your reputation precedes you, Lady Shiva," the Penguin greeted, regaining his composure and re-inserting his monocle into his right eye socket, "I've heard you're the only person in the world that Batman himself could not defeat hand to hand. That must make you one of the greatest martial artists in the world."

"The. Not one of," Lady Shiva replied, finally speaking with a feminine deep voice that resonated with confidence and power.

"I beg your pardon?" the Penguin inquired with confusion.

In less than an instant, Lady Shiva's coat flew off and she moved forward in a burgundy blur. The Penguin hardly saw it coming, barely just a quick, dark flash as something whipped out towards his face. There was a quick, quiet _snap_, and the Penguin squawked and flew backwards in his chair.

By the time he had the moment to formulate a conscious thought, Lady Shiva was picking up her coat, and the Penguin was dumbfounded as to why he wasn't in any pain. He then took a drag of his cigarette, only to discover that nothing was coming out of it.

In confusion, Oswald examined the end of his cigarette to find it unlit and twice as short as it was the last time he'd checked. Further examination showed the other half of the cigarette lying limply on his desk, both halves looking as if a razor had cut them.

The Penguin's jaw hung slackly as he looked at the woman.

"Batman, Robin, and even the former Batgirl were trained by me," Shiva informed him, cleaning cigarette ashes off of the side of her hand, "_They _are some of the greatest fighters in the world. Out of the three of them, none has defeated me without help or some kind of advantage. I am _the_ greatest martial artist in the world. Remember that."

Still looking with dismay at what she had done to his cigarette, trying not to imagine what it would've looked like if that were his finger, the Penguin nodded blankly.

Jacqueline King was smiling the entire time.

"Well, now that we've all been introduced, we can focus on the matter I originally came here for, Oswald," King announced.

Snapping out of it, Penguin looked at her suddenly, "Yes…yes of course."

"Good," King said as Cobblepot took out a lighter and re-lit his cigarette, "Basically, Darren Edwards has disappeared."

King pulled out a picture from a pocket of her suit, showing a rather presentable brown-haired man in his mid forties. She handed it to Cobblepot with an air of dismissal.

"Someone that owes you an exorbitant sum of money, I presume?" the Penguin asked after examining the photograph, setting it down on his desk.

"No," King clarified, "He was my lawyer. Both personally and for my campaign. Was supposed to go to Metropolis for something a week ago, but now he's disappeared."

"And you believe it's because he's become aware of our little conspiracy?" the Penguin inquired.

"What else could it be?" King dismissed.

"Hmm…Tracking someone down in Metropolis won't be too easy, especially when you've got a policeman with super-hearing flying around," the Penguin grumbled.

"I was thinking of something a bit easier. Edwards has a wife and son that are still in the city," King offered.

"My, my," the Penguin responded, "That was foolish of him. And you would like me to apprehend said spouse and son?"

"I think just one of them will do," King replied, "Try to make it low-key if possible. We don't want to draw too much attention. But at the same time, make _sure_ it gets done."

The Penguin looked off to the side a bit, thinking for a moment.

"I may have just the solution you're looking for, Ms. King," the Penguin announced with a smile.

"You know what to do, then, Oswald." King shrugged, getting up from her chair, "Get it done. We're too close to be taking chances now. Remember, don't call us. We'll call you."

"As always, Ms. King," the Penguin nodded, bowing his head as smoke wafted from between his teeth.

Miss Jessica opened the door, and Lady Shiva exited, with Jacqueline King following close behind.

"Ms. King!" the Penguin called.

King stopped halfway through the door and looked back at Oswald silently.

"Good luck in the election. Gotham deserves you," the Penguin sneered.

Jacqueline King continued through the door without a word.

* * *

Ask any Gothamite; riding around in a car through Gotham's streets was just as much white-knuckle excitement as any roller coaster in Amusement Mile. When said car was a super-sleek advanced automobile driven by a 1,200 horsepower jet turbine, like the Batmobile, the ride was even more exciting. Flying down lengthy Murphy Avenue through Gotham's Upper East Side at 8:00 at night, the Batmobile's powerful jet exhaust screamed as the glossy black car with it's wing-like fins darted in between various lanes of busy traffic. Unlike every other car in Gotham, the Batmobile seemed respectfully exempt from the usual cacophony of honks that would be exploding from neighboring cars as it frequently changed lanes and sped down traffic. Not that anyone in Gotham had the balls to honk at the _Batmobile_. Inside the car, there was silence between the teenage crime fighter in the passenger seat and the adult crime fighter at the wheel. The interior of the Batmobile seemed more suited to a helicopter or a fighter jet than a car, being controlled by a utilitarian semicircular steering wheel, it's dashboard host to dozens of gages and meters looking out at the driver like eyes. Batman gripped the steering wheel in a stony grasp, the scallops of his gauntlets turning like the rudder of a plane, his hardened eyes staring outward through the windshield as his city whizzed by.

Robin looked away from staring out the window, sparing a look at Batman for a few moments, as if waiting for him to say something.

The chiseled jaw did not move an inch. He may as well have been a statue.

He had been like this for at least a week. Since the whole Mr. Freeze debacle with Ben.

After Bruce had pulled him up off of the pavement, it was a stressful ride back to the Batcave and a relaxing chemical bath to restore his leg. Tim had been out of action for half a night after that, but he was in pristine order now.

At least physically.

In terms of his standing with Batman, however, that was another story.

"Bruce…" Tim trailed off, receiving no response from Batman.

Tim sighed and continued, "Look, I know you're mad. You've got a right to be. I was stupid. I panicked. I should've figured out some other way to deal with Freeze rather than calling Ben up. There, I said it."

"You're right", Batman growled, eyes focused squarely on the road, "You _were_ stupid."

"And you weren't there", Tim shot back, "What was I supposed to do, talk Freeze down?"

"You were supposed to ADAPT. It's what you were trained to do", Batman rumbled, "What you _weren't_ trained to do was endanger a civilian's life to save your own. It was selfish and it was foolish. I might've expected this from you years ago; _not_ now."

"I told you, I made a mistake. My com was shot. I was about to pass out from the shock. I thought I was going to die", Robin replied.

In an instant, the Batmobile swerved to the right, jerking Robin in his seat as the supped up car zoomed over onto the curb of the sidewalk and screeching to a stop.

Finally, Batman turned his neck to glare at Robin with hard, disciplined eyes as hard as polished stones.

"If you can't handle this job, then get out right now," Batman snarled.

Tim stared straight ahead, unable to meet Bruce's gaze. For a moment, the only sounds were their agitated, heavy breathing.

Outside, a number of people that had been walking along the sidewalk were frozen in awe at seeing the Batmobile so up close. One star struck young boy began to walk foreword, arms outstretched to touch the big black car.

Back inside, Robin finally was able to turn his head and meet the indomitable glare of

Batman.

"I said I was sorry, Bruce. I make mistakes. So do you. The point is that we learn from them," Tim protested with a gulp. It took a lot of brass to stand up to the Dark Knight.

Batman grimaced and looked back at the windshield, throttling up and inciting a roar from the turbine engine of the Batmobile.

Outside, the car roared to life and blasted foreword, squealing on its tires just as it came within reach of the little boy. The blast of the jets knocked the boy on his bum, and he stared in astonishment as the car roared down Murphy Avenue.

"You sound like Clark," Batman grumbled.

"You would know," Robin muttered.

Batman gave no indication that he heard or cared.

"Besides, Ben Edwards is no threat whatsoever," Robin dismissed offhandedly.

"He knows who you are, that's threat enough," Batman retorted.

"That's why I tapped his phone and bugged his penthouse," Robin shot back, "Oracle's got a monitoring virus in his computer. If he makes any kind of move, we'll know. I've already got keys to his apartment made from the tumbler pattern in his door locks. I'm going to drop by sometime when he's not there. He's got my good bo-staff."

There was the faintest suggestion of a smile on Batman's exposed jaw.

"Don't act so surprised," Robin shrugged, "I learned it from you."

Batman nodded ever so slightly, and Robin took it with great pride. It wasn't nearly as good as a verbal apology (not that Batman _ever_ gave out any of those), but it was as close as he was probably going to get.

"At least you know how to clean up after your messes," Batman smirked.

Robin thought about responding with, "That was uncalled for", however he decided against it.

Instead he sat back as the Batmobile roared through the streets of Gotham.

* * *

"The Committee to Elect Jacqueline King disputed the charges of public nuisance brought against them today, in response to the multitude of King campaign posters that have appeared all over Gotham, almost overnight. Many have complained that the saturation of campaign ads, promising a "Gotham City for Gothamites", is an overzealous measure. The most vocal protests come from the placement of posters on Dillon Avenue and Commerce Street, where King's posters cover vast stretches of building walls in massive murals", Jack Ryder reported from inside the television.

Lying on his mother's Italian silk sofa was Ben, his eyes glued to the massive 100-inch Sony flat screen mounted on the floor.

The massive boob tube was bigger than a bed frame, and was equipped with a surround sound system that rivaled a multiplex's.

His father loved the television, how it could shake the room with its speakers in the way that it could wake someone up three floors below. Every year for the Super bowl, all of Darren Edward's friends and associates came over for a massive party due to the fact that his television was one of the largest a person could get.

Ben's opinion of it was less optimistic. Though impressive and engrossing, especially when he hooked up his Wii to it, the gargantuan flat screen blocked the large expanse of windows that gave an impressive panoramic view of Gotham City, which Ben found much more appealing than the huge artifact of technological exhibitionism that currently occupied the space. Also, Ben wasn't positive, but he could've sworn on multiple occasions feeling the onset of what could've been an epileptic seizure after prolonged viewing.

The scary thing was, that Ben wasn't epileptic.

Lying on the couch with his eyes on the screen, Ben now wore a long-sleeved black shirt and a light pair of grey pants, both from American Eagle.

Jack Ryder continued with the news, oblivious to Ben.

"While the Committee fights for the right to keep the posters up, as well as to preserve it's plans to post a large campaign ad on a billboard over the Aparo Expressway, Jacqueline King herself issued a public statement at a press conference this afternoon, detailing her campaign plans and her personal role in the active restoration of the GCPD's Central Precinct."

The screen suddenly changed to footage of a podium, with Jacqueline King at the head, her stern jaw and compassionate eyes contrasting to give her a rather ambivalent edge.

The constant camera flashes that radiated from the footage, mixed with the large display of the Sony, gave Ben the feeling that one of those epileptic seizures might be on the way.

"One of the common complaints of the GCPD is that it is ill-equipped to deal with the super-powered variety of criminals that plague our city," Jacqueline King stated, orating from the pulpit like a pastor on Sunday, "Thus, we live in the illusion that Gotham City needs the Batman. As a measure of my commitment to a City without Batman, I have begun a 12-million dollar renovation and addition project for Gotham Central Precinct building. This independent construction will proceed regardless of the election results, to show my gratitude for the efforts of Gotham's Finest. We'll be building a brand new wing onto Central to house it's many newer tactical vehicles, in addition to renovating the infrastructure of the building itself to accommodate better Internet access and data storage. This renovation also includes the purchase of a 2-million Wayne Tech mainframe computer to house the continuously growing and modernizing criminal records library of the GCPD. It is my hope that the Gotham Police Department will be able to use these donations in their continuing fight against the crime that grips our city. Thank you."

There was the sound of applause as the footage cut back to the newsroom.

"King herself was unavailable for comment on the placement of the campaign ads. An independent candidate, King has proved extremely popular in recent polls for her promises to end Gotham City's dependence on the Batman, as well as decrease crime and put a stop to the multiple backdoor abortion clinics in the northern sections of Gotham City," Jack Ryder informed.

With a sigh of disinterest, Ben scratched his arm and changed the channel with the remote.

"HOLD!" a cartoon Viking roared from the television, raising a staff with several female breasts growing out from the top, "You cannot yet caress my daughter's AWESOME BOOBAGE!!"

His eyes widening slightly, Ben cocked his head in amusement as the latest episode of South Park played out before him.

He almost didn't hear the loud knocking at the door.

Ben raised his head and looked around, then turned the volume on the television down.

As Kenny McCormick and Gerald Broflovski quietly battled in the Nippleopolis for the rights to lather the Viking daughter's boobs in soapy suds, Ben listened as someone pounded at the door once more.

"Who is it?" Ben called over the TV.

"Son, it's your dad! Lemme in; I lost my keys!" a muffled voice from behind the door called.

Ben's brow furrowed as he leapt up from the couch and headed for the door.

"Dad?" Ben inquired, twisting the doorknob and opening the door.

In the hallway was a rather ruffled Darren Edwards, his usually clean-shaven face now with a distinct five o'clock shadow, his brown, graying hair unusually ruffled.

He wore a black pinstriped suit with padded shoulders, which also had a disheveled look to it.

"Hey, son," Darren breathed quietly with a crooked smile.

"Dad…" Ben said quizzically, "You sound weird…"

Darren dropped the smile and stepped inside the penthouse, lightly shoving past Ben.

"I'm a little under the weather, son," Darren coughed.

There was a squishy, scraping sound as Darren walked, and Ben looked down to notice his father leaving massive sticky footprints of mud in his wake, which seemed to shrink slightly as he walked further away.

"Dude!" Ben exclaimed, "Mom's gonna kill you for tracking mud in here!"

"She'll live", Darren answered, breathing hard.

Again, Ben had to notice that something about his father's voice was a little… off.

"How was your trip?" Ben inquired as his father leaned against the dinner table.

"It was alright," Darren answered vaguely, closing his eyes and gulping.

Ben noticed beads of sweat running down his father's brow.

"Dad," Ben asked, stepping forward with concern, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Darren snapped suddenly, sticking out his arm to stop Ben.

It may have been Ben's imagination, but his father's skin seemed just somewhat browner than usual.

Upon further examination of the suit that Darren wore, Ben saw something else wrong.

Ben's father hated pinstripes, and thought that shoulder pads were too flashy. His father had a bit of a reputation around the Gotham Bar Association for wearing grey Chesterfield-style suits like the ones the Beatles sometimes wore. His father would never have worn a suit as flashy as what he had on now.

"Son…" Darren asked, gulping, "Do you remember what I was doing…in Metropolis?"

Raising an eyebrow, Ben slowly answered, "…No. Dad, _you _don't remember?"

Darren looked as if he was getting annoyed.

"Never _mind_," Darren growled, rolling his eyes.

It was then that Ben noticed something truly odd.

There appeared to be small amounts of mud on the elbows and coattails of Darren's suit. There was even some on the nape of his neck.

The most bizarre thing about it was that Ben was almost positive it hadn't been there a few moments before.

"Dad, I think there's something really wrong with you here," Ben protested with concern, "Sit down for a second, I'll get you some water."

Ben turned and headed for the cupboard on the wall, opening it up with a squeak and pulling out a designer glass, then going over to the sink and switching on the water purifier, then running the tap and filling the glass up.

"Here, drink something," Ben said, going back to the table.

He noticed that his father was neither sitting down nor in the same place he formerly was.

Instead, he was at one of the large windows looking out at Gotham City night, his reflection a ghost just barely visible in the glass.

Darren seemed to be looking at his own reflection rather than the city, and a low moan was escaping from his slack jaw.

"Dad…" Ben said with concern, approaching, but then he stopped and froze in confusion.

There now appeared to be mud all over his father's back.

Darren raised a hand to his face, and it seemed to have a distinctly bronzed or dirt-like complexion.

In the ghostly reflection, Darren's eyes were sickly yellow, and his face seemed to be in the formation of an ever-deepening frown.

As Ben stepped closer, he dropped the glass in shock.

He didn't even notice as it shattered with a crash of glass and spilling water at his feet.

His father's face wasn't frowning.

It was _melting_.

Everything about his father's body seemed to droop like a piece of melting candle wax, turning ever more a deeper shade of brown.

Seized with horror, Ben clamped his hand over his mouth and fell backwards against the kitchen table as the moan escaping from Darren's mouth grew louder and louder, and his shoulders began to sag as if he was giving a monumental shrug.

Ben felt his heart stop as Darren's moan grew into a full-blown yell, and he pulled his head back and slammed it full-force into the window.

Instead of cracking against the window like a normal head should've, Darren's head collapsed into a massive brown blob against the glass.

Ben felt like he was going to throw up or faint or something.

At least he could've, if he hadn't been paralyzed with the gripping horror that froze him in his spot.

His father quickly melted into a massive, man-sized brown blob, reforming itself into the vague shape of a man with shoulders to rival that of the biggest football player.

In the midst of it all, Ben heard a voice, which he somehow knew was coming from the blob. It was a deep, guttural, inhuman caricature of a voice, more like the sound you'd expect someone to make when they're drowning in a swamp or in quicksand.

The voice gave off a deep, rumbling chuckle, then growled, "Sorry, kid. I've been havin' trouble lately…keeping it _together_…"


	7. Chapter 6: Mud Wrestling

Hi, everybody! This is the longest chapter yet, and the most fun for me to write so far. I know you'll have just as much fun reading it, as villains start coming out of the _walls_ from this point on. Oh, and by the way, just to help your imaginations: Imagine the Batmobile in this story as the one from the original Tim Burton _Batman _and _Batman Returns_ movies. That always has been, and always will be, THE Batmobile in my book. Have fun mud wrestling with Clayface. --Tobias Umbra

* * *

He looked kind of like a snowman, made out of human feces.

He smelled kind of like it, too.

Ben lay sprawled out on the floor, his heart rate seized in a fit of horror, as the brown, mud-like blob that had once been his father began to reshape and pulsate and ooze into a large, grotesque caricature of a man. Growing massive shoulders that defined the entire shape, with long, gorilla-like arms with the thickness of a tree trunk, there was a rapid sucking and squishing sound as the blob reformed itself. At the ends of each arms formed four-fingered fists like boulders, individual fingers having a disgusting, almost phallic appearance. At the base of the blob formed a pair of massive legs like those of an elephant, sinking into the floor in a puddle of thick mud and clay. In between the obscenely broad shoulders, a mound began to form like an engorging zit, the faintest suggestion of a brow and jaw on the exterior.

A pair of empty, brownish-yellow eyes opened under the brow, and the jaw of the squashed head split horizontally open in a cavernous maw filled with jagged, stone-like teeth.

There was a stirring in Ben's stomach as he gagged, and he felt the warm sting of vomit burning the back of his throat.

He clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle his barf, and in the back of his mind there was the faintest amount of recognition.

Clayface…wasn't that the thing's name?

Of all of the freaks and super criminals haunting Gotham City's streets, Clayface was possibly the only one of them with what might be called 'superpowers'.

"Don't worry, kid," Clayface gurgled in a guttural growl, "You don't gotta die tonight. We just have to take a little walk somewhere…"

The mud monster took a clumsy step forward, creating a distinct sucking sound as he lifted his stumpy foot, then a distinct slapping sound as he set it down. It sank into the floor slightly in a glop of brown sludge.

There is a part of the brain, called the hypothalamus, which controls the instinctive reactions to threatening situations, called the fight-or-flight response. The hypothalamus pumps a person full of adrenaline and other hormones and tells a person, subconsciously, whether to fight or flee a source of danger.

At that moment, Ben's brain did not care about what Clayface might be saying or the assurance that he wouldn't be harmed.

At that moment, Ben's brain was telling him to _RUN_.

Hyped up on adrenaline, Ben launched up from the wood floor with surprising stamina and speed, rounding the counter and dashing for the door.

"HEY!!" Clayface bellowed, and Ben heard a loud, squishy _pop_.

Less than a second later, Ben felt a massive, moist blow to his back that knocked the wind out of his lungs and knocked him off his feet.

He hit the hardwood floor in a heap, smacking his jaw painfully and biting down on his tongue. The warm rush of blood in his mouth and the pain made him lock up and coil together.

Behind him, he heard Clay face's squishy steps coming toward him.

"I tried to be NICE about this!!" Clayface bellowed, and Ben turned over to see a large glop of mud on his back, with the monster standing over him.

Ben leapt up and fell against the stove as the mud monster came closer.

"I _said_ I wasn't gonna hurt you, kid," Clayface growled, his cavernous mouth moving like Jabba the Hutt's. As he spoke, Ben noticed a skillet on the inactive stove.

"Now we can do this the easy way or the _scary _way," Clayface menaced, "What's it gonna be?"

Without skipping a beat, Ben grabbed the skillet, swinging with the narrow end into Clayface's excuse for a head.

There was a distinct _splat_ as Clayface's skull disappeared in a splash of mud, and Ben jumped backward as his face was peppered with freckles of brown.

Ben dropped the skillet in shock as Clayface simply grew a new head, his empty yellowish eyes brimming with anger.

"Suit yourself," Clayface snarled.

Ben screamed as Clayface's arm grabbed his shoulder, feeling the wet, oozing but super-strong grip on his arm.

"Shut up," Clayface snapped.

Ben smacked and struck at the trunk-like arm, producing only slaps of clay, hyperventilating in fear.

Clayface's other arm grabbed his waist, oozing around his hips to envelop his entire midsection.

Ben again felt the urge to vomit, surrounded by the smells and the warmth and the moisture, it was like sinking into a pool of shit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a spray bottle full of kitchen cleaner with bleach. Instinctively, Ben mustered up one final burst of strength, pushed off with his feet and threw himself into the counter. Just as he felt Clayface beginning to pull him backwards, Ben grabbed the bottle from the rim of the sink, crunched upwards to be right in front of Clayface's eyes, and sprayed into the empty yellow orbs.

"AHHH! **YOU ****FUCKER**!!" Clayface roared and released his grip, throwing Ben into the wall with a bellow that shook the ceiling.

Ben slammed into the wall, his neck jerking with whiplash, and he let out a groan of pain as he slid down the wall.

As Clayface stumbled backwards, Ben squashed the pain down into his stomach and took off, throwing the penthouse door open and bolting out into the hallway.

He burst out into the hallway with so much speed that he smacked into the hallway wall, bruising his shoulder as he tore down the hallway to the elevators.

The panic rushing to his brain was to the point that he didn't even want to use the stairs.

Clayface could run after him down the stairs.

Ben needed to get as far away as possible, as fast as possible.

He jabbed his forefinger into the call button, pushing his back into the elevator doors in terror as if it would make them open faster.

There was another animal roar that Ben could feel shaking the ground, then the slight tremors from those heavy, stomping footfalls.

Ben heard the mild humming as the elevator ascended to the 22nd floor.

The massive shadow darkened the corridor as the walking mud pile shrugged out of the penthouse and oozed into the hallway. Clayface was visibly blinking his bulbous yellow eyes as he leered down at Ben.

"I'm gonna fuck your world up, you little shit…" Clayface snarled, flexing those massive hands.

Ben began to hyperventilate as Clayface trudged down the hallway towards him, his eyes darting at all angles.

In a red metal box mounted near the door to the stairs was a carbon-dioxide fire extinguisher, within easy reach.

Ben charged forward and yanked open the box, grabbing the large red tank in both hands and pulling it off of the rack.

With a grunt, Clayface's left arm shot forward and extended, snaking around the corner and grabbing Ben's wrist, enveloping it in sucking, sticky brown ooze.

The arm jerked back and began to drag Ben towards the massive body, the face split open in a malicious grin.

Ben took a step backwards, only to receive an even stronger jerk than nearly pulled him off of his feet. He put his middle finger into the ring and tore out the safety pin as Clayface pulled him around the corner.

Mustering up all of his strength, Ben pulled back against the arm and unhooked the extinguisher's hose, gripping the handle in his other hand.

Ben turned around and aimed the fire extinguisher at Clayface.

"No you don't!!" Clayface snapped, shooting his other arm forward, extending it with thick fingers raked at Ben's face.

In Ben's horror, he watched as the fingers narrowed and sharpened into four narrow spike-like appendages.

Pushing backwards with his feet, Ben threw himself to the ground and squeezed the handle of the fire extinguisher.

With a distinctive whooshing hiss, a cloud of white gas burst out from the hose and enveloped Clayface's snake-like arm.

There was another howl of deep anguish as Clayface was obscured in thick carbon dioxide gas.

Ben gritted his teeth in pain as Clayface's grip on Ben's other arm constricted and threatened to crush his bones.

Ben gripped the handle of the extinguisher and lifted with his other arm, his biceps flexing as he lifted the tank of the extinguisher as far over his head as he could.

At that exact moment, Ben heard the perky _ding _as the elevator arrived.

With a grunt of conviction, Ben brought the extinguisher down hard on the tight tentacle of mud.

There was a wet splatting sound as the tank bashed into the tentacle, and it promptly stretched and softened its grip in response to the blow.

Planting his feet firmly on the ground, Ben jumped up and tugged against the gooey appendage, stretching it like taffy until it gave way and detached from the rest of the monster.

The mud that had previously been gripping his wrist fell limp and began to slop off of his hand.

There was an enraged scream as Clayface's silhouette appeared through the carbon dioxide fog.

For good measure, Ben gave another blast with the fire extinguisher, then threw it as hard as he could in Clayface's direction.

Ben could just hear the dull, soft thudding sound as the extinguisher hit Clayface just as he threw himself into the open elevator.

As soon as he hit the padded interior of the elevator car, Ben rushed over to the console of buttons and frantically stabbed at the CLOSE DOOR button.

Finally, the doors began to slide closed just as the clouds of CO2 began to clear.

Just barely through the fog, Ben could see Clayface's yellow orbs narrowed in fury, then there was a small click as the elevator doors shut.

Ben punched the LOBBY button and breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator jolted and began to slide down the shaft.

Collapsing in a post-terror calm against the elevator walls, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath, Ben almost felt like laughing at the upstart, bland elevator music, a calming contrast to the terror mere moments before.

He simply waited there for a moment, catching his breath as the floors clicked by slowly down from 21, 20, 19, 18.

Ben looked around at the button console and saw a door over the cubbyhole in which the elevator's emergency phone resided.

Stepping forward and yanking open the small door, Ben pulled the phone off of the hook and put it to his ear. He'd left his cell phone on the couch by the TV, so the emergency phone was his only option.

After a moment, Ben heard the clicking sound of the phone connection.

"911 Emergency Response. How may I help you?" The operator on the other end inquired.

"I need the police," Ben breathed, "There's a…man in my building and he's trying to kill me."

Ben couldn't think of quite how to explain the whole Clayface situation, so he thought it best to keep it simple.

"Alright, where are you, sir? And what is your name?" the dispatcher asked urgently.

"My name's Ben Edwards. I'm in the elevator in my building. It's the Robinson Park Terrace building, 1989 Burton Street."

"Are you sure you're in a safe place, sir?" the dispatcher prodded.

"I'm pretty sure," Ben responded.

As if on cue, there was a hard thump from above and a jolt of the elevator.

Ben yelped in shock and looked up at the floor counter as the grinding of gears echoed from the elevator shaft above, noticing that the elevator was moving much slower than it previously had, sluggishly moving from floor fifteen to fourteen like a fifteen minute timer.

"Ben?" the dispatcher demanded with a touch of stress, "Are you safe at the moment?"

"I don't know," Ben whispered in fear.

"Ben, you need to get to a sa—before you--" the operator sputtered out as a small metallic squeak could be heard from above.

"Hello?" Ben croaked into the phone, only to hear silence. There wasn't even a dial tone.

Ben pulled the phone away and looked down at the deceased phone in his hand, only to notice that the lights above were getting dimmer, a dark shadow growing over the floor.

Ben stared upwards in horror to see the clear plastic covering the fluorescent lights above filling with brown, flowing mud.

"Oh, shit," Ben squeaked, his breath short.

The plastic covering bent downward from the weight of the mud filling the chamber up, and a corner popped out from the frame, spilling a cascade of flowing clay into the elevator, which poured onto the floor and splashed Ben's knees with brown.

Ben yelped and fell backwards from the waterfall of clay, slamming his finger into the red alarm button repeatedly.

The elevator instantly stopped in between the 12th and 11th floors, actually making the problem worse.

Ben pushed himself into the corner of the elevator, paralyzed in dread as the mud continued to fill the elevator with surprising speed.

In seconds, the mud coated the floor and touched his toes, shocking Ben out of his stupor as the clay's surprising coldness chilled him to the bone.

Ben ran his fingers down the elevator console's buttons, lighting the panel up like a Christmas tree, pressing every button he saw.

Still, the elevator refused to move, and Ben reacted with a low scream as the mud began to flow towards his corner of the elevator, the mud actually beginning to creep and ooze up his legs. Over it all, Ben could've sworn he heard Clayface's deep, gurgling laughter from above.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, please," Ben whimpered, jamming his fingers into every button on the panel.

It didn't matter what floor or whether he went up, down, or sideways, just as long as he moved, as long as he could get some escape from this hell he'd found himself in.

The mud continued to flow around him, sinking into his every pore, pooling around his ankles whilst a thick brown coating crawled up his thighs, soaking him in that deathly cold. The pool began to rise to his knees as the coating of mud slowly bordered his hips and private parts, both soaking and creeping under every layer of his clothes, violating him like a sex offender.

It was then that Ben realized that he couldn't feel his legs below his knees, and he slammed both fists on the unresponsive elevator buttons, screaming for help at the top of his lungs.

"Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod," Ben stammered, praying that he'd just wake up from the nightmare he'd been thrust into for seemingly no reason.

Ben breathed harder and harder and nothing seemed to satisfy his lungs as the coating of mud climbed up his hips, and the pool of clay rose to his mid-thighs.

It was then that he saw the red emergency button fixed in the pressed position, and he frantically pressed the button again, and the elevator hummed to life.

Ben hollered in terror, slamming his fingers again and again into the eleventh floor call button.

With finality, the elevator dinged for him and the silver doors began to slowly slide open, and Ben could practically hear the Halleluiah chorus.

Gripping the door frame with his arms, Ben threw himself forward out of the elevator, hearing a sucking sound and feeling a pulling sensation at his legs as the mud refused to release him.

Ben hit the carpet of the eleventh floor on his side, his ankles still in the clay's firm grasp.

Ben pulled at his thighs hard as if he was trying to run in place, and felt the mud giving way just a bit.

With a final, roaring burst of effort, Ben yanked his legs backwards and dislodged his feet from the living mud pile.

Immediately, the living mud that had been crawling under his clothes went limp and began to soak his shorts as if he'd soiled himself.

Ben moaned raggedly as he stood to his feet, barely noticing the fact that the mud had devoured his flip-flops.

Back in the elevator, the mud began to pool even more rapidly, and began to take some shape.

It wouldn't be long before Clayface was coming out of the elevator.

Without any hesitation this time, Ben took off towards the staircase, throwing open the door and jumping with surprise as the fire alarm began to honk. Regaining his posture, Ben considered the more alarm, the better, and took off through the stairwell and down the stairs, the concrete scratching at his bare feet.

His toes and heels still coated with clay, Ben slipped while curving around a landing and fell into the guardrail, smacking his ribs into the metal rail and rolling down the short flight of stairs. He hit the next landing in a heap, scraping his ear on the cement. Ben let out a growl of pain and clapped his hand to his ear, coming away with the tips of his fingers red with blood.

A flight above, Ben heard a crash as the fire escape door was slammed open and a deep roar shook the concrete stairwell.

"You're really startin' to piss me off, kid," Clayface rumbled from above.

Ben picked himself up and took off down the stairs, trying not to slip this time as the monster's steps could be heard slapping on the steps above.

He looked up the atrium-like stairwell, Clayface's gargantuan shoulders looming over the guardrails from a floor above.

Clayface turned and glowered at him, raising one of his arms.

Ben took off without even waiting to see what would happen next, hopping down the stairs at three steps at a time as a hardened clay spike bashed into the concrete walls, creating a depression and a spider web of cracks in the masonry.

Above, Clayface's arms were stretched out like brown, taffy-like snakes, extending far below with claw-like hands attempting to grab him. Ben watched in horror as one of Clayface's hands transformed and re-molded itself into a shovel-like blade, swishing into the guardrail and cutting a massive sliver into the metal, bending it like a paper clip. Ben dived forward to avoid getting struck, and landed hard on his chest in a way that it knocked the wind out of him.

Picking himself up with a groan and a gritting of his teeth, Ben forced himself up and took off back down the stairs.

Clayface's arms shrunk back upwards and Ben could hear the thudding stomps of Clayface running down the stairs.

It didn't take Ben long to reach the fifth, fourth, and third floors with Clayface still pounding after him and the fire alarm still buzzing aloud.

Ben was rather surprised that other people hadn't appeared on the stairs yet, running from a fire that didn't really exist. He was still thankful, however, since more people would probably slow his escape from the terror above.

Ben rounded the corner between the second floor and the stairs leading down to the ground floor, and he heard a loud slumping sound from above, like someone heaving a heavy garbage bag through the air.

With little warning, the massive brown mass of Clayface dropped down from the stairwell above and landed on the concrete with a distinctive, repulsive splat.

The impact shook the ground itself and Ben stumbled for a bit, diving hurriedly for the door to the lobby. As Ben pushed on the bar to open the lobby door, he looked back to see a large clay tentacle shooting out from the re-forming mud mass, the tip shaped like the head of a sledgehammer.

Ben darted to the side as the hammer-headed tentacle missed him by mere inches, then crashed into the lobby door and threw it wide open with an audible bang.

The tentacle bounced backwards and rejoined the rest of the clay pile, which was quickly regenerating into Clayface's body.

Ben took off through the open door and burst into the lobby's white marble floors, bolting into the middle of the room and passing the lovely-looking fountain in the center of the floor.

Behind the building's desk, Jeff the security guard had a bewildered, confused look on his face, and a well dressed, middle-aged couple standing at the desk looked at him like he was a wild animal.

Ben realized for a moment how bizarre he had to look, his back and his waist to toes covered in mud, bleeding from his ear and the scrape on his chin.

He must've looked like the guy from Die Hard.

"Ben. Are you alright?" Jeff inquired oddly, "What's going on here?"

At that exact moment, a horrible metal shrieking could be heard as the emergency exit door to the lobby was blown off of its hinges. The door sailed through the air and crashed into the lobby's fountain with a loud crumbling and a messy splash. The fountain began to leak and pool water on the marble floor as the woman in the couple began to scream in shock.

From the blown-out doorway emerged Clayface, his gooey feet slapping against the floors.

The woman continued screaming as the man with her and Jeff jumped back in horror.

The couple took off as Jeff took cover under the security desk.

So much for building security's help.

Pulling back his arm like a monstrous pitcher, Clayface made a throwing motion with his hand and lobbed a massive glob of mud at Ben with astounding speed.

Ben ducked for cover as the mud pie soared over his head and splashed against the wall above the security desk with a resounding crack.

Ben took off running across the lobby, sprinting through the glass automatic doors as they slid open for him.

He felt the cool Gotham night air swirling around him as he ran up Burton Street with its sparse nighttime traffic.

A roar behind him said that Clayface could only be outside as well and still in pursuit.

Up ahead, the intersection of Burton and Fourth laid inviting yet dark.

Without even looking for oncoming traffic, Ben leapt across the street and slipped on the sidewalk on the other side.

With a final stomp on the asphalt, Clayface stopped in the middle of the street, mere feet from him, and scowled down at him.

As Clayface looked down at him, Ben could see the yellow glow of piercing, approaching headlights. Was that the blaring whine of a jet exhaust that he heard in the distance?

Clayface didn't seem to notice, his yellow lobes fixed on Ben's prostrate form.

"Let's see you pull another stunt _this_ time," Clayface sneered.

Almost faster than Ben could comprehend, the jet-engine whine grew louder and the approaching yellow lights grew brighter, finally enough for Clayface to notice and look in their direction.

Clayface barely had time to utter a gasp of surprise before a low riding, four-wheeled black shape screamed into view and plowed into Clayface with a loud, wet crash.

As if in slow motion, Clayface practically exploded, splatting against the sleek black car and spattering all over the street and the surrounding buildings in a thick brown spray.

As the car screeched to a stop, Ben could see just a small pile of mud remaining in the automobile's wake.

Trying to process the information, Ben looked at the now idling black car, observing it's curving, wing-like fins and its hood like a jet turbine. The distinctive split windowed windshield, more appropriate to a fighter plane than a car, and the smoking jet exhaust could only belong to one car.

Ben picked himself up, shaken, as the top of the Batmobile slid forward and exposed the two riders in the car.

Leaping out was a familiar teenage form in a domino mask, yellow and black scalloped cape and a red and black suit with an R on the breast.

Ben was still in a measure of shock as Robin came closer and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Ben?" Robin asked urgently as the Batmobile idled on the street.

"You hit him with a _car_," Ben remarked in disbelief.

"We kind of had to. Better he gets hurt than you. Not that it really hurt him," Robin shrugged.

Robin didn't bother to explain his personal opinion about fighting Clayface. Though dangerous indeed, there was little that could actually kill Clayface aside from fire, industrial chemical solvents or a lot of water. There was something vaguely fun about fighting Clayface, since there was little need to hold back against someone that could take all sorts of normally lethal punishment and only get really exhausted as a result.

The spattered mud from the buildings, streets, and even the mud smeared on the Batmobile began to squirm and creep back to the mud pile where Clayface had once stood.

With alarming speed, the pieces of Clayface gathered together and loomed up into a vaguely human shape behind the Batmobile.

"Um…" Ben trailed off, pointing behind Robin at the rejuvenated Clayface.

"That REALLY hurt," Clayface rumbled as Robin followed Ben's gesture.

Before Clayface or Robin could do anything, the jet exhaust of the Batmobile let out a short but powerful burst that singed Clayface and blew him apart at the waist like a melting chocolate ice cream cone in a wind tunnel.

"He's going to be taken care of for a while," Robin remarked flatly, turning around to face Ben once more with a serious look in his eyes.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Robin asked.

Still rather shaken up, Ben was at a loss for an answer, and responded slowly, "I _live _here?"

Robin gave him a very annoyed look, as if Ben was retarded.

"I _know_ that," Robin shot back, "I mean, what are you doing with gruesome back there?"

Behind them, Clayface had regenerated his blown-off torso and had reformed his face into a very angry expression.

"NOW I'm pissed!!" Clayface bellowed.

Robin merely glanced over his shoulder and cautiously put a hand on his belt as the Batmobile's canopy slid open and a great black shape flew out from the driver's seat, spreading dark leather wings and casting a dark silhouette on the asphalt below.

As the bat wings narrowed and the shape dropped to the ground, it extended its arm and threw an object that looked like a hockey puck at Clayface, which splatted into his chest with a hard smack.

An instant later, there was an earsplitting boom as the object exploded, blowing every part of Clayface above his 'knees' apart.

The black shape landed on its feet and raised its cowled head, crowned with a pair of pointed ears.

Ben could just barely see the insignia of a bat on its chest, and his breath was once more frozen in his lungs.

With a minor turning of his head, Batman stared at him with those piercing eyes again, with a mix of suspicion and forced softness.

"Woah…" Ben breathed in awe.

"Hey, Ben. Stay with me," Robin said insistently, snapping his black-gloved fingers in front of Ben's face.

Ben's gaze returned to Robin.

"Do you have any idea why Clayface decided to attack you?" Robin demanded.

Ben awkwardly shrugged. "I dunno. I'm just sitting and watching the tube, and suddenly…_he_ comes in and starts some shit. I've just been running my ass off since then."

"Did you tell _anyone_ about me?" Robin interrogated.

"No!" Ben answered, slightly insulted, "I'm not gonna tell people that shit, Tim. They probably wouldn't believe me anyway…"

At the point that Ben had called him 'Tim', Robin gave him an icy look and a frown.

"Sorry…" Ben corrected sheepishly, "…Robin."

Behind them, Clayface was reconstituting himself once more; his sludge-like fragments leaping back together and reforming into a humanoid shape with a furious speed.

"STOP DOING THAT!!" Clayface bellowed.

Before Clayface was even done yelling, Batman was in motion, charging towards Clayface silently with his dark cape swirling behind him.

Clayface thrust his arm hard at Batman, his arm stretching out and forming the spiked-ball form of a mace.

Batman was leaping through the air before Clayface even knew what was happening. Clayface's mace-fist missed the Dark Knight and slammed into the sidewalk, generating a massive shockwave that almost knocked Ben off balance. As Batman flew through the air, he thrust his arm out at Clayface's extended appendage, and Ben could hear a high-pitched spraying sound as a pale white gas coated Clayface's arm.

Batman soared over Clayface's head, delivering a hard punch to the monster's face that collapsed the fearsome visage.

As Batman landed on his feet behind Clayface, Ben could see the arm that Batman had sprayed, stiff and slightly darker with tiny, sparkling ice crystals growing out of it.

"Freonic gas," Robin explained offhandedly, "One of the few things that can incapacitate parts of him."

Clayface screamed in anguish as Batman whirled back around the large monster and delivered a snapping kick to the stiff arm, which surprisingly shattered like pottery, large pieces of stiff clay crumbling to the ground.

"In English, that means…?" Ben inquired.

"It makes him really really cold," Robin responded in a patronizing tone, "It freezes his cells and makes them brittle. That way, he breaks apart instead of just oozing back together. Simple enough for you?"

"Smart ass," Ben muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," Robin remarked in a disinterested monotone.

Clayface was trying to fight Batman with one arm now, extending his remaining limb like a whip and making failed slashes at the darting crime fighter.

The tentacle molded into an extremely sharp, lance-like point, and speared down at the ground at Batman's feet.

Batman leapt back and flung a rather fat-looking black batarang at Clayface, which smacked into his shoulder and began to sink in.

Batman ducked down and shielded his eyes as the batarang exploded in a brilliant flash of white light and deafening sound.

As Clayface let out a short cry of panic, now blind and disoriented from the flash bang grenade, Batman unleashed another wave of freezing spray from the aerosol can in his hands, solidifying Clayface's spear like appendage.

Clayface flew backwards and detached from the tentacle with still some semblance of an arm left.

"Ben," Robin asked, "Did you tell anyone _anything_ about what happened last week?"

"No," Ben insisted, "I haven't said a word about it to anyone."

Robin rolled his eyes impatiently and said "I know you wrote a journal entry about it on your computer. You also wrote it down in that book of yours."

"What? How did you know that?" Ben demanded with some confusion, "Have you been _spying_ on me?"

"What did you expect?" Robin snapped, "Last week was a royal cluster fuck! I kept an eye on you."

Back behind them, Clayface was concentrating on trying to keep Batman at bay.

"Give it up," Batman recommended, producing a batarang with a pair of electrodes where the 'ears' would normally be.

"Bastard," Clayface growled, stretching his remaining arm out far, "You just don't get it, DO YOU?!"

Clayface's arm transformed into a sharp, scythe-like shape, and he swung it in a ferocious manner in an attempt to bisect Batman.

The Dark Knight rolled across the ground, dodging under the swinging arm and launching the electric batarang at Clayface.

The batarang sank into Clayface's shoulder and began to spark, eliciting a series of loud shrieks from Clayface as he flailed his arm lethally and wildly. Batman dodged forward, out of range as Clayface continued to get zapped.

In his wild spasms, Clayface's still sharpened arm plowed into a nearby fire hydrant, tearing open the valve with a rending of metal.

The hydrant burst open and released a torrential blast of water, spraying Clayface with a dense, full-force stream.

Robin whipped around in surprise, and all three, Batman, Robin, and Ben were frozen for a moment in their respective positions as Clayface began to scream and spasm.

As he absorbed the high-pressure geyser of water, Clayface continued to jerk from the electrifying batarang still embedded in his shoulder. As he writhed in agony, Ben noticed that Clayface was rapidly losing consistency, his legs beginning to melt into a brown custard that was being diluted into a thin earth-toned liquid by the rushing waters. He was, for lack of a better word, melting, and rather than collapsing and reforming like before, it appeared that he was dissolving.

"Robin!" Batman commanded urgently, and the Boy Wonder burst into a full speed run before Ben could even comprehend it.

Almost as if reading each other's minds, they swiftly and wordlessly set out on specific tasks.

Robin drew a silver, collapsible bo-staff from his utility belt, extending it with a flick of his wrist, then leapt into the air and smacked the shoulder in which the batarang was embedded. The batarang fell off, along with most of Clayface's shoulder, which sloughed off like the top scoop of a melting ice cream cone.

Batman himself leapt in front of Clayface, extending his cape to shield himself as he took the full force of the water.

Gritting his teeth, Batman threw another hockey-puck shaped disc at the fire hydrant, which exploded with tremendous boom that tore the entire fire hydrant off of the street.

The unhindered water main proceeded to blast a pressurized jet of water skyward. The water still came down due to gravity, and most of the area around the intersection was drizzled with a rain-like shower.

"Let us get you out of the water," Batman insisted forcefully to the wobbling, dripping Clayface.

"And into…some lockup…?" Clayface choked out, his legs still dissolving into brown custard.

"You'll live," Batman growled.

Clayface's entire body began to droop, looking almost like a chocolate Easter bunny in a microwave.

What passed for Clayface's chin drooped and dripped off of his face like a taffy pull, splatting quietly on the street.

Clayface looked around as the light shower of water continued to fall, and he actually began to shrink in size, becoming a pathetic shadow of the hulking monster only minutes before.

Ben saw Clayface's gaze lock onto a large storm drain mere feet away, then watched him look back at Batman.

"I'll take my chances," Clayface growled.

With one last burst of strength, Clayface coiled his remaining body up and gave a sloppy leap through the air, leaving a garbage-bag sized mud pile behind him.

Batman and Robin darted after the leaping sludge-ball in vain, missing him by about a yard as Clayface splashed into the storm drain and gushed through the grate, vanishing into the darkness of the runoff sewer.

There was a small moment of silence, with nothing but the roaring of the ruptured water main blasting into the air and the pitter-pat of it returning to the ground.

Ben felt the cold, wet feeling as his clothes were soaked.

"Do you think he's going to die?" Robin inquired, staring at the storm drain.

"Hardly. He's survived much worse than this. Still, I doubt we'll be hearing from him for a while," Batman answered, then paused to look around at all of the diluted, yogurt-like brown mud, "He's got a lot of body mass to regenerate."

There was the echo of fire sirens in the distance, and with an unannounced sputtering, the erupting water main thinned and suddenly died as the city's automatic shutoff system disconnected it.

The shower stopped moments afterward, and Batman spun around quickly, the water splashing off of his cape.

Those piercing eyes were directed at Ben.

Ben stood frozen as Batman stormed right over to him and stood right in his face, boring him down with the force of his gaze. Ben could only look away, and felt his pulse quicken in a measure of fear.

"Why did Clayface attack you?" Batman ordered.

"I-I, uh….d-don't…"Ben stammered, unable to find the right words.

"It's no coincidence that you were in Chinatown last week with Freeze and then here with Clayface tonight. Why?" Batman commanded in a forceful, growling tone that made Ben want to piss himself.

"I don't know, I swear," Ben burst out in hushed tones, still unable to meet Batman's gaze, "He just came in and attacked me. He told me that he wasn't here to kill me, but I don't remember why. Please…"

There was a moment of silence as Batman still towered over him.

Ben flinched, part of him expecting Batman to hurt him.

Instead, Batman turned on his heel and stormed back to the Batmobile, the canopy sliding open almost automatically.

"Robin," Batman growled.

The Boy Wonder joined him in getting into the sleek super car.

Ben regained his posture as they climbed into the Batmobile, and took a few steps toward the awesome, intimidating car.

Batman looked back at him intensely, a stern look on his face.

"We'll be watching. Go home, lock the door. Don't let anyone in, no matter who it is," Batman menaced.

"What if it's you guys at the door?" Ben squeaked impulsively.

Robin smiled faintly, giving Ben a slightly warmer look.

"We don't use doors," Robin answered.

The Batmobile's canopy slid closed with a metallic click, then with a snarling whine the jet exhaust lit up and the Batmobile zoomed off with a squealing of tires.

Ben was left there, muddy, soaking wet, and confused.

* * *

Atop a building at the corner of Fourth Street, a pair of men stood after having watched the scene that had just unfolded between the Dynamic Duo, Clayface, and Ben Edwards.

Both men had a rather bizarre look to them, in the way that made them look almost inhuman. The first man, who had been gleefully crouching at the edge of the roof for the entire time, was dressed in a rather flamboyant purple tuxedo. A drop into a large vat of industrial acid had bleached his skin white and his hair a garish green. This, along with the fact that his red-lipped mouth was fixed in a maniacal grin from ear to ear, made his face look rather like a clown's.

The second man, who had been standing farther back and watching in a much more patient and reserved manner, wore a custom-made, two-toned business suit. He, too, had been exposed to acid, which had horrifically scarred a perfectly symmetrical half of his face and hair, leaving the other half completely untouched. In his right hand was a novelty, two-headed silver dollar with one face perfect and the other face mutilated. As the two men waited on the roof, the man with half a face constantly flipped the coin, producing a faint, metallic whipping sound as it spun through the air and slapped into his hand.

As the Batmobile sped away below, the man with the clown face smiled bigger, then remarked in a high-pitched and yet somewhat guttural voice, "Lookie, Harv. Looks like Clayface won't be coming back to the office."

"We'll figure something out," the man with half a face remarked in a deep, growling voice, flipping his coin once more.

A moment passed as Ben Edwards began to walk back to the Robinson Park Terrace building, then the man with the clown face said, "Junior's still on the loose. Time to go play baby sitter."

"I guess so," the man with half a face answered.

"Hey, Harv…" the man with the clown face trailed off, "Whaddaya say I get a little one-on-one time with Junior?"

"Not a chance in Hell," the man with half a face growled.

"Oh, please, please, please, Harvey!" the man with the clown face whined, "Pretty please with sugar on top. Pretty please times a billion. I _love_ kids. Not really, but I promise I'll bring him back with a smile on his face."

"The problem would be getting the smile _off_ his face. Or finding a pulse," the man with half a face muttered.

"C'mon Harv!" the clown-face pleaded, "Why ya gots to keep a brother down?"

"You'd turn the building into a bloodbath. I know it. Even you know it. Don't try denying it, Clown," the man with half a face retorted, flipping his coin.

"You mean there's not _one _part of you that wants to let me have just a _teensy_ bit of fun?" the clown-face begged.

"Not even half a part," the man with half a face smiled.

The clown-face's grin dropped for a moment, then returned as he had a brilliant idea.

"Oh, Haaarrrveyyyyy," the clown-face crooned, "I'll…_flip_ you for it…"

The man with half a face lost his smile, and then looked down at the coin in his hand.

He grumbled something that sounded like a curse, and then rolled the coin across his knuckles, saying, "Good heads…you follow my lead and shut up. Bad heads--"

"—You wait here while I make the teenybopper _giggle_," the clown-face cut him off with a toothy smirk.

The man with half a face frowned as the clown moved closer and stared down at the coin.

"Deal," the man with half a face said, then he flipped the coin through the air.

Both men looked up as the coin whistled into the space above them, glinting as it caught the moonlight at the peak of it's trajectory, then began to fall back to earth.

The man with half a face moved to catch the falling coin—only to have the clown snatch it quickly out of the air and take off with a laugh.

"MADE YA LOOK! HA-HA!!" the clown screamed, dashing across the rooftop.

"CLOWN!!" the man with half a face bellowed, bolting after the clown.

Just as the clown reached the end of the fire escape, he turned around and appeared to wait for the man with two faces.

Just as the two-faced man was about to reach the thief, the clown threw the coin back across the roof.

With single-minded purposeness, the man with two faces made a panicked dash after the coin as it sailed through the air, hearing it land somewhere in the distance.

Frantically searching, the man with two faces finally found his beloved coin moments later, picking it up and feeling relief wash over him in an awesome wave.

As he rose back to his feet, the man with two faces saw the clown sprinting down the street, already halfway to the Robinson Park Terrace building.

With an irritated grumble and a roll of his eyes, the two faced man decided to just let him go.

"Stupid Clown," the two-faced man rumbled, flipping his coin once more.

He angrily grabbed it out of the air and opened his palm, revealing the scratched, mutilated, bad head of the coin.

With a final growl, the two-faced man said, "Whatever."

* * *

Ben began to towel off his moist body, after recently having gotten out of the shower to rid himself of the gratuitous dirt and moisture that had soiled him after the run-in with Clayface. It had been a very long, hot, relaxing shower, too.

With a sigh, Ben tossed the towel into his sink and strode naked to his closet, opening it up and quickly grabbing a pair of boxers.

Ben pulled them on, feeling gratitude for the simple pleasure of putting on underwear that _wasn't_ soaked in living mud.

He then put on a charcoal grey Hollister polo shirt and a pair of frayed brown shorts, then walked out of his room and into his living room, preparing to turn on the television and try to forget about Clayface or Batman, or even Robin. This would be very hard to do with the kitchen still a mess from when Clayface had first come in, but Ben was going to try his hardest to just tune it out.

Right as Ben threw himself on the couch and reached for the remote, there came a loud, somehow obnoxious knock on the door, comprising of exactly two individual knocks.

Ben sat up and stared in the general direction of the door.

He remembered what Batman had said about not answering the door. But at least he could check the peephole.

Ben quietly got up and tiptoed from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the door, during which there was another pair of knocks.

Ben carefully aligned his right eye with the peephole and looked into it, only to see the hole completely dark and black, as if someone was holding their hand over the peephole.

There came another pair of hard knocks, and Ben instinctively called out, "Who's there?"

Almost immediately after, Ben cringed, having forgotten that he probably wasn't supposed to do that.

"Imagonna," a high-pitched and yet guttural voice answered from behind the door.

"What?" Ben stated in confusion.

"You're SUPPOSED to say 'Imagonna who?'!!" the voice barked indignantly from the other side.

"Imagonna who….?" Ben repeated in puzzlement.

Suddenly, there was a loud thunk and a shocking crunch of wood as the blade of an axe punched through the penthouse door, causing Ben to leap backwards in shock.

The axe blade was removed, and a single, sickly yellow eye stared at him through the crack in the door. Ben could only just make out what appeared to be skin as white as paper on the forehead above the eye.

"IMAGONNA CHOP YOU INTO PIECES WHEN I GET THROUGH THIS DOOR!!" the voice roared, "GET IT?! AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

Ben felt his heart stop as the axe smashed into the doorframe, and he saw the door beginning to come loose off its hinges.

Then he heard another howl of maniacal, high-pitched laughter, and it chilled him to the very core.

He knew that laugh.

Every man, woman and child in Gotham City knew that laugh.


End file.
